


Regrets: Tailspin

by Jassy



Series: Regrets [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jassy/pseuds/Jassy
Summary: The second time around doesn't go quite as Sam planned.





	

March 20th, 2003

Sam stretched, aching muscles protesting the movement. It was funny how something could kind of hurt, but feel so good at the same time. Rubbing the sleep crusties out of his eyes, he blinked the room into focus. Oh, right. Their current motel room had a distinctly bovine feel to it. What with the cow wallpaper and the steer head mounted facing the bed. Sam felt a little uneasy whenever a room had dead animals staring at him.

What was really funny, though, was that they weren’t in the south. They weren’t even out in the country somewhere. They were in Athens, Ohio. A nice, big, university town, and they got–cows. The mind boggled. In two years on the road (this time around) this had to be one of the most out of place motel rooms they’d stayed in.

He rolled over, smiling automatically when his eyes fell on his brother. Dean was drooling a little, head tilted to the side, one arm flung out for Sam to use as a pillow. Dean was so much fun. He really enjoyed life, in a way that Sam had never seen before. It made sense, of course. Dad was still alive, and they met up with him on a regular basis. Sam himself hadn’t left the family. The quest was over, taking with it an edge of grimness to their hunting. It was still important, still difficult and dangerous. But they weren’t mowing down everything in their path on the way to a greater evil. Now...they were just hunting to save lives. And it was good, all of it. Never in a million years would Sam have thought he could be this happy while living on the road, sleeping in dingy motels and eating grease laden diner food. 

Smile turning distinctly lascivious, he leaned over Dean, lowering his mouth to lick oh, so lightly at Dean’s collarbone. Salt and musk rolled over his tongue, old sex and Dean, and he couldn’t keep himself from suckling lightly to get more of that flavor. Dean tasted so good, even when he hadn’t showered in a day or two. Dean laughed at him over it, but Sam had a real oral fixation when it came to his brother. He loved to lick and suck at whichever part of him was closest. Of course, Dean only laughed at him about it after he’d gotten his blow job. No one had ever accused Dean Winchester of being stupid, after all.

Beneath his mouth, Dean stirred slightly, breath huffing out with the slightest hint of sound. Sighing himself, Sam reluctantly got on with business, sucking his way down Dean’s chest, avoiding his nipples for the moment. His brother had ridiculously sensitive nipples; the second he paid any real attention to them, Dean would be awake and tossing him on his back. Not a bad thing, sure, but not what Sam wanted this morning. So he skipped those and traced a line down Dean’s sternum, right to his belly button and the start of his treasure trail. Tugged those fine hairs a little with his teeth, feeling more than seeing the restless shift that caused, eyes full of freckled smooth skin and downy fine hairs that turned to coarse curls the further down he went. 

Dean was half hard by the time Sam got that low, cock perking up slow and sleepy. Laughing to himself, Sam nuzzled his face into the base, the spongy head brushing his cheek. Then he lifted slightly and sucked it down, feeling his brother’s cock finish growing within his throat. Lifted his eyes when he felt hands thread through hair that Dean insisted was too long, but that he never cut when Sam handed him the clippers. He always taunted and teased until Sam kissed him to shut him up, and somehow the clippers always wound up back in Dean’s duffel, never having come near to Sam’s head.

Dean wasn’t taunting or teasing now. Eyes barely open, lips parted on panted breaths, skin flushed, he held Sam’s head and moved his hips gingerly. A questioning thrust, and Sam wormed his hands beneath him to cup his ass, encouraging the motion with hands and a low hum. Bitten off curses started to rain down as Dean let loose a little, hips pumping more firmly, fucking Sam’s mouth but still so careful. Not quite what Sam wanted, but for that, he’d have to get Dean drunk. Sober, Dean is never less than careful with him, and it would piss Sam off except that he takes it as his brother’s way of saying ‘I love you’. Since he never says it any other way.

It didn’t take long. Morning sex never did, although Dean would never in a million years acknowledge that fact. His fingers tightened in Sam’s hair, his hips took on a stutter, smooth rhythm lost, and the half bitten off words stopped. Sam felt the pulse through his lips as Dean shot down his throat, and pulled back to catch the last couple spurts on his tongue, rolling the bitter liquid around before swallowing that, too. He kept suckling gently until Dean pulled him off, over sensitive flesh needing a break, and crawled up to share a sour/bitter morning kiss. Dean pulled away, nose wrinkled. Between their combined morning breath and the taste of semen, it was a fairly unpleasant experience. Sam just laughed, though, and pressed himself full length to his brother’s side, rubbing his cock against Dean’s hip. Dean grinned at him, little lines creasing around his eyes with his pleasure, and reached down to take him in hand. Sam insisted on kissing, regardless of taste, and after a couple token grunts of protest, Dean gave in, kissing back as he jacked Sam off. With a low cry of his own, Sam spent himself all over Dean’s hand and hip. “G’morning,” he panted, licking at Dean’s mouth.

“Yeah. Now go brush your teeth.” Sam bit his lip, earning himself a shove out of the bed. That was alright, though. Dean got up to stalk, all mock wounded dignity, into the bathroom. The view from where Sam was laying was so nice, he couldn’t object to having to lay on questionable motel carpet, bare-assed naked, in order to see it.

There was also the part where he knew the bathroom door didn’t lock, which opened up all kinds of possibilities.

~  
April 3rd, 2003

There wasn’t actually anything to hunt in Athens, Ohio. Possibly nothing in the entire state of Ohio, and wasn’t that just weird? This was more of a rest stop for them. A time to relax, let their minds and bodies regroup. Just be, as Sam liked to say, all faux-zen. Dad was off hunting something, but didn’t require their help. And so they were here, in the cow room, and bumming around the city with nothing to do. Evenings meant heading out to a bar for fried foods and beer, and the never to be bypassed hustling.

Actually, Sam was pretty tired of that last part of the routine. Sure, he’d shouldered his weight as far as their finances went, used his baby face to its best advantage to obtain their cash. That didn’t mean he liked it, or enjoyed the smell of spilled alcohol and stale cigarettes that went with doing it. And he was done with cheese fries and burgers. At this point, skanky Chinese food would be preferable. Besides which, they had a pretty good stash of cash, they could afford to stay in for a few nights. All of which Sam presented to Dean in an attempt to get him to skip the night’s bar trip. But Dean was restless, edgy from too long without a hunt, anxious to get back to it. He was like that whenever there was a too long dry spell, and could never bring himself to just waste time.

Sam waved him off, promising that he’d comb the ‘net, really start looking for their next job while Dean added even more to their finances. Dean was insultingly eager to get out the door, even with leaving Sam behind. Sam did as promised, searching (half-heartedly) for anything that had even the slightest chance of being worth checking out. But there was nothing, and he ended up going to bed before Dean got back, cell turned all the way up and tucked under his pillow.

When he woke the next morning, Dean was already awake and dressed, and had coffee waiting. He initially seemed almost reluctant to meet Sam’s gaze, but as the morning wore on, he relaxed. Laughed and suggested a trip to the museum in one of his blindingly generous moods. Dean hated museums. Claimed that the dead things inside creeped him out. Sam just liked that there was usually nothing they had to salt and burn inside, regardless of its state of living.

After a day spent strolling around the museum, Sam sprang for a real dinner, complete with silverware that they didn’t have to remove from plastic and napkins that they didn’t need to yank out of a dispenser. In deference to Dean, they also didn’t need to wear anything fancier than their usual street clothes.

Dean went out again that night, leaving Sam behind to continue his searching. Sam searched with a little more diligence, the beginning of his own restless itch prompting him to find something, anything, c’mon, let’s just go already. 

Dean still wasn’t back by the time he called it quits and went to bed. And he was gone again the next day, a note on the pillow beside Sam’s head telling him that Dean had found a garage that would let him overhaul the Impala in exchange for an afternoon of work. 

He was gone again the next day, and the day after that. Sam’s appetite left him, replaced with a constant sick, curdled feeling. Dean was avoiding him, but he couldn’t figure out why. And Dean had the car, so there wasn’t much Sam could do in the way of following him, since he’d have to drive around and find his idiot brother before he could do any kind of following. Something that couldn’t be done in a cab, unless he wanted to waste every penny of the cash that kept multiplying every time Sam looked at it.

Sam searched, more than desperate for a hunt to drag his brother back. And then he started to worry that Dean was the hunt, that something had possessed him or was influencing him, but Dean was able to cross over the salt lines and under the wards carved over the door. 

Two weeks of that. Of playing phone tag, and notes left, and a second pillow left undented by another’s head. And Sam returned to the motel room from doing laundry, listless and worried and so quietly freaked out he was ready to call dad and tell him that Dean was being weird. Only to find Dean sitting in the room, rolling his ring around and around on his finger. Sam dropped the duffels with twin thumps, and Dean flinched. “Dean. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah.” Dean glanced up at him and away, but that one look was so filled with guilt....Sam swayed a little, wondering if he’d dreamed his trip back in time. Because that was the guilt of a Dean who thought he’d failed at something. Something big, something about Sam. Sam hadn’t seen it since he’d died, and Dean had brought him back with his soul.

“What’s going on, man. You’ve been...not here, for a while now. And you look like you’ve killed someone’s puppy.” Sam flopped to the end of the bed, trying to catch Dean’s eye again. But Dean was steadfastly focused on his ring, and Sam could see that he was pale.

“I know, Sam. It’s...I’ve....” He took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. Still didn’t look up, but aside from that one thing, Sam recognized his brother’s confession pose. It had never been directed at him before, always their dad. “I met a girl. Her name is Cassie.”

Sam wanted to throw up. Or cry. Or scream. Possibly all three. Because of course Dean had met Cassie. They were in Ohio, weren’t they? And that’s where the two of them met, while Cassie was finishing up her journalism degree at the university. If Sam had just remembered that, paid more attention to the year instead of coasting along in his own little bubble of joy, he’d have been able to avoid this. Insisted they drive on to another city, another whole damn state. Hell, he could have asked to see the Grand Canyon, and he wouldn’t be faced with a brother who’d gone and fallen in love with a pretty girl, and only had his relationship with his baby brother to hold him back. A relationship that Dean was ashamed of, that he didn’t have the history of loss and pain to make him not care about the crossed lines, to make him embrace every last little thing they could of each other. 

Sam’s own clinginess had bothered Dean at first, until he’d learned to back off.

“Cassie, huh? Is she pretty?” a voice asked. Sam shook himself, realizing it was him speaking. He needed to keep it together, here. Now was not the time for any grand confessions of his own.

“Yeah. Sammy, I...”

“Don’t, man. Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to stay with her? I mean, for good?” Sam demanded, thinking that this would be the sticking point. Because of course Dean wasn’t going to stop hunting. Maybe he just wanted to work things so they drove through every couple of months, or...

“I think...I do. I do, Sammy. She’s amazing. Beautiful, smart, strong, and classy. The type that usually doesn’t take even a second look at a guy like me. I–I want her, Sam.”

“You think she’ll make you happy?”

“Yes,” Dean whispered, sounding so very broken. So sure that Sam would say no. Would cry and pitch a fit, with the ‘how could you’s’ and ‘you can’t’s’ and ‘don’t leave me’s’. Sam wondered what he’d done wrong the last couple of years that would make Dean think he was still that selfish little boy. Once he’d been assured of Dean’s life...all he’d wanted was Dean’s happiness. He’d thought, based on the Dean that once was, that his happiness would involve Sam staying with him. 

Sam took a deep, shaky breath. Blew it out, and made his choice. “Okay. Okay, Dean. If this Cassie is what you want, then I want her for you. But, I mean, if you aren’t a hundred percent sure that you’ll be happy with her,” he couldn’t resist adding. “I’m not exactly eager to break up the team. We’re so good together...”

“We are,” Dean agreed quickly. “We’re so good together. I just...I never considered it before, Sam. That we could...do something different. But with her, I can see myself staying in one place. Maybe even having a real job for Christ’s sake. But if you don’t want me to go...”

Sam slid off the end of the bed to kneel before his brother. Begging with his body even as he planned to let him go with his words. He slid his hand through Dean’s short hair, feeling the gelled spikes bend under the contact. Pulled Dean’s head down that little bit so their mouths could touch. It wasn’t until he tasted salt in the kiss that he realized that he was crying. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I want you to stay with me forever, Dean. But I want you to be happy even more. If she’s the one who makes you happy, then you should stay with her.”

“I don’t want to lose you over this, Sammy. That’s not really gonna do much towards making me happy. How can I be with her if it means losing you?”

Sam took one last kiss, trying to memorize the taste of Dean through the salt. “That’s the benefit of being lovers with your brother; even when you break up, you’re still brothers. That’s forever, man. You know that. I’m just...gonna be hangin’ with dad from now on. We’ll see if that big ass truck of his is really all that comfortable for the long hauls.” The choice had been made, and Sam couldn’t bear it. He jerked to his feet, scrubbing his face and running a hand through his slightly greasy hair. He supposed the timing of this was convenient in one way, at least. Having just done laundry, he had no need to pack anything. All his clothes and belongings were in his duffel already, what few weapons that were actually his already on his person. 

It was just like ripping off a band-aid; best to do it fast, all at once. On jerky legs, he went back over to the door, collecting his duffel on the way. He thought he heard Dean whisper his name, but when he looked back, his mouth was closed and he was back to staring at his ring again. “I’ll call when I get in. Dad’s in Portage right now, up in Wisconsin. This isn’t...it’s not like we’ll never see each other again, Dean. I swear. I’m just gonna need a little time to get used to the way things are now. You go, man. You build a good life and be happy. Okay? I love you, and that’s never gonna change.” Dean flinched for some reason, possibly it was simply the uber chick flick moment they had going on. Sam faced the door again, a sudden thought giving him pause. 

He could have Dean back pretty damn quick. All he had to do was let Dean tell her. They’d split the first time because Dean had told her about hunting, about their family history. She’d thought he was insane, or simply offering some crackpot story in order to break up with her. And Dean would do it again. Having chased Sam off, Dean wasn’t going to hold back with her. He’d lay it all on the line, and she’d think he was insane and break up with him. “A little piece of advice, though. When you want to tell her about the family business...you do it when you can offer her undeniable proof. Otherwise, I don’t see it going very well. She’ll think you’re nuts, man.” He reached for the door handle, some part of him still hoping that he’d be called back. He wasn’t.

He walked to the bus station. Just his luck, an early spring rain started up, cold and hard, the ground still frozen enough that none of it soaked in, leaving him to walk through puddles. When he got there and had his bus ticket in his hands, a purchase that had taken almost all the cash he had on him, he pulled out his phone. “Hey, dad. You’re still up in Portage, right? Wisconsin? Good. My bus will get in at about six in the morning. Can you pick me up? No, I haven’t had a fight with Dean. He’s...met a girl, dad. He’s honest to god met a girl, and he’s staying with her. I’ll tell you when I get there, alright? Good. See you in a few hours.” 

Hanging up was a relief. He didn’t want to discuss it now. He was too raw, too hurt, to be able to be rational. To put on the mask of little brother, rather than jilted lover. 

His bus pulled in, disgorging a handful of passengers. Sam waited through the routine maintenance, the refueling, and climbed aboard when they allowed it. It was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done, in either lifetime, getting on that bus. Knowing he was leaving his brother behind, and the next time he saw him, he wouldn’t be able to reach out and touch him. He’d never have more than jocular back slaps, or ruffled hair again. There wouldn’t be any comforting arms when he had a nightmare. He had wanted to save Dean, and he had. He had wanted to free Dean, and he had. He just hadn’t known that freedom from the quest would mean freedom from him too. 

Watching the scenery go by in a blur, Sam wanted to call him. Wanted to hiss out ugly, spiteful words. Sam had gotten this second chance for all of them. Had saved their lives, had saved so many lives, and this is what he got in return? Didn’t Dean know what he’d been through, what he’d given up, what he could have had with the demon dead so soon? He’d dropped out of school for his family. Had thrown away a full ride to Stanford, and the comfortable, safe future that would have bought him. And maybe he wouldn’t have had Jessica again, but he could have found someone just as amazing as she’d been. And he’d given all of that up, hadn’t even acknowledged that it was possible, all so he could stay with Dean. All so Dean could leave him for some glorified gossip spreader.

When his bus pulled into the Portage station, he was so damn conflicted he could hardly see straight. Not the ideal state of mind for dealing with his father, but it was all he had. He couldn’t decide if he was pleased that Dean felt he could take what he wanted, rather than ignoring his own desires in favor of his and dad’s. Or if he was angry and bitter, wanting to throw his own sacrifices back in his brother’s face. His own losses. Anything to guilt Dean into leaving Cassie for him.

But all of that was replaced with worry when, after collecting his bag, Sam couldn’t find any trace of his father in the station. It was just after six, not terribly late, and his dad should have been waiting, full of questions about what the hell Dean was thinking, what was he doing. Had he lost his mind? Was he possessed? But John Winchester wasn’t there. 

Sam knew he’d been hunting something, but not what. His worry only grew when he called and there was no answer. In this life, that wasn’t something Dad did, ignore his phone. Sam slung his duffel over his shoulder, checked that his .45 was within easy reach, and got directions to the only motel the town boasted. He couldn’t afford a taxi, even if the town had such a service, and the city buses won’t be running for another hour at least. So he walked, and when he finally found the place, saw his father’s truck parked at the very end of the row. Room twelve, and no other cars except his until you got down to room five. It was doubtful that, if there’d been any kind of struggle, anyone would have heard anything. 

Stomach clenching, because what if...what if...Sam pressed his ear to the door. He thought he could hear a faint whisper, cloth against cloth, and perhaps the squeak of bedsprings. Jaw clenching, Sam gently picked the lock, drew his gun, and slammed inside. His father lay on the single bed, fully clothed, above the covers. His resting without intending to sleep posture. Above him was some amorphous thing, all insubstantial and fluttery, Hollywood’s idea of a ghost. Sam narrowed his eyes, knowing that it wasn’t a ghost, it was something else, and trying to figure out what it was doing to his father.

John’s eyes were open, he realized. Open, but glazed and unseeing. And, worse, it was pressed against him full length, closer than a lover, but Sam could see through it. And he could tell that his father was hard, straining against the zipper of his jeans. Sam drew his gun from his waistband, aimed, and fired. Just one round, but it was blessed iron, and a surprising number of things didn’t care for either iron or blessings. It screeched, loud and shrill, turning a hideous face towards him. Sam fired again, not able to go for a heart shot, having to aim side-on to it, and if it had an ass, his bullet had just carved a trench across both buttocks. It seemed to curl in on itself for a moment, and then it was gone, streaking out through the vent. 

Sam went to the window to see if it had a way outside, maybe they could track it once his father was on his feet. He never heard the bed squeak, never heard the footsteps. He was so focused on running down what creatures induced lust (and there were a surprising number of them) and how to find them, how to kill them, that the hands grabbing his head came as a complete shock. Very briefly, because they slammed his head into the window frame a couple times, very fast, and he was out.

When he came to, he really wished he hadn’t. At first, he couldn’t quite get a handle on what was going on. It was too surreal, too impossible, to be happening. But the pain racking his body told him otherwise, and his father’s twisted face above him added to the nightmare. He struggled, naturally, but John was somehow stronger than he was, and it only made the ordeal even more painful. And begging didn’t even seem to register. So he closed his eyes, retreating from what was happening, and tried to figure out why. What had happened to his father to make him do something like this? 

He recalled, with sudden, horrible clarity, the way the thing had curled in on itself when he’d shot it. It wasn’t a pain induced reaction, Sam realized it. It had to have been biting. Which at least narrowed the suspects down as to what it was. It had been a type of succubus, kind of a bastard cousin to them, really. Whereas a succubus could cloud a man’s mind at will, this type of thing couldn’t. It had to rely on a man staying asleep while it fed, and its only defense was its venom. Sam personally thought the venom was more potent, since it seemed to remove all human reason from whoever it bit.

The knowledge didn’t do him much good. It didn’t make his current ordeal any easier, or shorter. Couldn’t ease the pain. He hurt so bad, and he just wanted it to be over. And then it was over, his father stiffening and shaking on top of him, letting out a groan that seemed to come from the bottom of his feet. Sam grunted when his dad collapsed on him, and, lacking anything better to do, patted his back. 

It was the wrong thing to do, apparently. John sucked in a breath and scrambled away, and jesus fuck but that hurt, the way he just yanked it ...Sam shied away from that, curling in on himself and the pain in his lower belly, deep inside where rubbing couldn’t reach, didn’t help. He managed to look up, saw his father fastening his jeans like his life depended on getting that zipper up right damned now. Sam groped for something to say, some offhand comment that could ease the tension, make them both feel better. But John didn’t give him the chance.

“Christ on a stick, Sam! What the hell were you thinking, just waltzing in here without even checking....” John ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at him. “Look, you just–go back to your brother. I don’t think you should be here, we never worked well together anyway. I gotta try to track that thing down.” He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, dug out a fistful of cash. “You be on the next bus back to wherever your brother is thinking of retiring or whatever.” He dropped the money on the bed and all but ran into the bathroom. 

Sam’s mind went blank. To the sound of running water from the bathroom, he slowly uncurled himself. Gingerly gained his feet, although all motion sent the burning pain ratcheting up. Hunted down his jeans, finding them entangled with his boxers and sneakers across the room, yanked off and flung, probably. Managed to get them on, his sneakers too, and looked at the money on the bed. He didn’t want it. He didn’t. There was something dirty about that money, the way his dad had just thrown it on the bed that he’d just....

But he didn’t have enough for more than a cup of coffee, maybe a slice of pie. Hadn’t even thought to bring more than the bus fare, not when Dean was going to need it to start his new life. So he took it, flesh trying to crawl away from its touch on his palm.

He didn’t remember walking out of that motel room. Couldn’t recall (and didn’t want to, jesus) the walk back to the bus station. Nor the purchase of a ticket. But he must have done, because he was sitting at the back of a bus, the motion of the clumsy vehicle aggravating every last injury. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t know how long the bus had been in motion. Didn’t care, truth be told. Just so long as it was away. Away from his dad, away from Dean, even. Somewhere he could just hole up for a while, not have to face anyone or anything until he got his head on straight. That was all he wanted now, just some peace and quiet for a little while.

*  
May 19th, 2003

Sam parked the motorcycle in between a severely battered pick up truck and a shiny little Corvette. Stared up at Harvelle’s Roadhouse and wondered if this was the best idea he’d ever had. But he wasn’t up to being alone, while at the same time there was no one else that he could bring himself to go to right now. His actual family didn’t want him, and how was he meant to explain that to any of their friends? A month he’d been alone, and he just couldn’t take it anymore. Here, he could be with people who’d at least think they understood, and he wouldn’t be bothered.

Sighing, Sam swung his leg over and stood, stretching out the kinks. The motorcycle wasn’t the best option for long hauls, not least of which because it simply didn’t have room in its saddle bags for everything he’d need. He could barely fit his clothes, a few books, and his laptop. When he started collecting more weapons, he’d have to find a car. But for now, it got him from point A to point B. Slinging his messenger bag with his laptop in it over his shoulder, he walked as calmly as he could into the building.

Ellen was behind the bar, a rag over one shoulder. She looked up with a blankly friendly smile, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. Just the bland greeting of a bartender about to make more money. Jo was there, looking even younger than he remembered her, waiting tables with plenty of sass for the occupants. She, too, looked up, but while there was still no recognition, Sam still knew the look, that assessing, frank gaze, and shied from it. He had never been attracted to her, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But by far the most welcome figure in the half-full place, seated at the far end of the bar, was Ash. Helpful, funny Ash, who should never have died like he had. He was glad that he’d never had to see his body, that all his memories of Ash were good ones. Sam sidled over, choosing a seat just one over from the other man. Ellen came over right away, eyebrow up. Sam managed a small smile, and presented her with a driver’s license. It was real enough, in that he’d gotten it from an actual DMV, but everything on it was fake. 

Ellen examined it closely, returning it with a much friendlier smile. “Well, Jesse Moore, what can I get you?”

“A beer, please, whatever’s on tap. And do you have wireless, by chance?” He gestured at his laptop. “I’ve been working on something, on and off, but internet is pretty sporadic.”

“Sure thing. Ash here will get you set up. Won’t you, Ash?” Ellen flicked the rag at the other man, getting his attention. 

“Huh? Oh, sure. Gotta have a password to sign on, man. You mind if I...” Ash gestured for the computer, and Sam willingly slid it over. There was nothing on it that would give him away as anything but a hunter. Not who he really was (who he didn’t want to be, anymore) nor the true story of his life. It was just research, information gained and saved against possible future need. It was also his ticket in with these people. He’d let Ash see what he was working on, a subtle way of letting them know that he was in the know. 

Ash tapped away at his computer for a minute, then slid it back over. “There ya go, man. Don’t log off, or I’ll have to log you back on.” He flashed a grin, super quick, then turned back to his beer.

“Thanks.” He nodded at Ellen, too, before getting to work. He really was looking into something, his first since...his first hunt on his own. He was half afraid that, from the looks of what he’d been able to find, the spirit belonged to a child. Those were never fun, digging up and burning those tiny little bodies. He was never able to keep himself from imagining what their lives might have been like, if only they hadn’t drowned/fallen/been murdered. Pointless, and it only ever depressed him, but he couldn’t help it.

He lost track of time, absorbed in his research. Completely forgot where he was, and why. Right up until he felt warmth against his back that made him stiffen with alarm and anger, and heard a smirking voice mutter in his ear, “you need some help with that, Jess? ‘Cause your computer skills suck.” Sam jerked away, turning around to scowl at Ash. It must have been a fairly intimidating scowl, because Ash lost the smart ass look and backed up a step.

“Excuse me?” Sam snapped. “And my name is Jess-E. Not Jess.”

“Whoa, chill out.” Ash held out both hands, a classic unarmed gesture. “Just offering my services, dude. Since we seem to have something in common.”

“What could we possibly have in common?” Sam demanded, heart pounding and angry for no real reason that he could figure.

“I know job research when I see it. You’re hunting a ghost.” Having apparently decided that Sam wasn’t going to hit him, he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “And I can get you the info faster.”

“You think so? And who says I want help?” Sam challenged. 

“Just a guess.”  
Sam studied him, taking note of the intense curiosity in Ash’s gaze. “So...you hunt?” Ash nodded, hands twitching for Sam’s computer. “Okay, if you want in on this...fine. We’ll see how it goes.”

Ash snagged the computer like a child snatching at candy and hopped up on the stool beside him.. Sam watched, bemusement overriding anger for the moment, as he typed rapidly. Multiple windows popped up, one after another, until Sam was starting to fear that Ash would freeze the whole damn system. But no, after about half an hour, Ash handed it back to him with a look of supreme satisfaction. Sam skipped from window to window, skimming what Ash had so swiftly found. And yeah, without actually seeing the spirit, Sam was sure that it was the kid. He sighed, attempting to rub the headache out from behind his eyes.

“What the hell, man? I just handed you your case, open and shut. What’s with the drama? And where’s the gratitude?”

Sam looked at him, startled. “What? Oh, right. Thanks, Ash. You saved me quite a bit of time.  
I appreciate it.”

Ash looked distinctly nonplused. “That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” Sam closed up his laptop and threw some money on the bar. “Look, man. I really do appreciate your help. I do. But right now, I’ve gotta find a place to crash, and then I need to do some serious restocking, and then I get to go salt and burn a nine year old boy’s bones.” He tossed another bill on the bar. “Have a couple on me, alright?” He stood up, nodding at Ellen, and left.

Outside, the late spring air was crisp in his lungs, calming him down, easing away the urge to smash his fist into something. He still couldn’t figure out why he was angry. He had what he’d wanted, didn’t he? He’d made that connection, eased his way in with the roadhouse crew. Turning around and being pissed over a little assistance wasn’t the way to keep that kind of connection.

He needed to get a grip, seriously.

He found his bike, still between the other two diametrically opposed vehicles, and eyed it with dislike. He missed the Impala. He’d grown up in that car. He’d had his first kiss in that car. That car had allowed him to sprawl out, and there weren’t many vehicles in existence that could say that. Not cool ones, anyway. Sam sucked it up, as he did each time he had to get on the thing, and swung a leg over.

“Hey, Jesse!” Ash trotted up, seeming almost confused by his own actions. “You’re a dick, but why don’t you stay here anyway?”

“Say what now?” Sam squinted at him, wondering if this were some kind of joke.

Ash hooked his thumbs through his belt loops again, eyeing him from under over-long bangs. “Dude, you’re wound seriously tight. But this place is for hunters like us. Ellen lets me crash here, and I got room to spare. Save you having to find a motel, anyway. I can maybe hook you up with someone to help you resupply, too.” He peered at the bike. “Fit much in that thing?”

“Not really. That’s one of the things I have to supply.” Sam rubbed the back of his head, eyeing Ash right back. “You seriously want to put me up for the night?”

“Sure. You intrigue me, Jesse Moore.” Ash cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

“Alright,” Sam heard himself say. Ash grinned, cat that got the cream. Feeling uneasy, Sam followed him back inside, through the bar, and into the back. Ash’s door lacked the Dr. Badass sign that he remembered, but the room itself still smelled of pot, sweet but faint. There wasn’t much in the way of beds; a small twin up against the wall, piled high with jeans and shirts, and a futon mattress on the floor, piled high with pillows and cushions. A love nest, Sam thought whimsically. Without ceremony, Ash swept the clothes off the bed and onto the floor. A bare mattress greeted them. Seemingly flustered, Ash ducked into the closet for a minute and emerged with some very threadbare sheets. He made the bed, selected a pillow from his own pile, and presented the whole thing to Sam triumphantly. “Got a blanket?”

Face falling, Ash ducked into the closet again. This search took more time, and was accompanied by a couple of painful sounding thumps. But, eventually, Ash was out again with a cotton blanket, which he spread over the bed like he was Martha Stuart. “Ta da!”

“Thanks, man. This is more than fine,” Sam assured him. He sat on the edge of it, a little alarmed at the way he kind of sagged. But it held, and though his feet would hang off the end, at least there wasn’t a footboard to scrunch him up. He’d slept in plenty of worse beds. Sam stripped down right there, keeping on his t-shirt and boxers. He crawled under the blanket, watching Ash strip right down to his own boxers and flop into the middle of his pile of cushions.

“So, dude, you gotta tell me. How did you end up trying to hunt with nothing but a crappy motorcycle and jack-all for equipment?” Ash asked, flipping on an honest to god lava lamp before reaching up to turn off the overhead.

Sighing, Sam reached for the lie that he’d prepared. “I had a partner. Kind of a mentor, I guess. When I got into this business, I hooked up with him almost right away. All of the gear we used was his. He got hurt recently, and it fucked up his leg. For good. He retired to a houseboat down off the coast of Louisiana, and I left all the weapons and shit with him. Seeing as how they were all his anyway.”

“Major suckage.”

“Yeah. What about you? How’d you end up, well, living here? Is Ellen your aunt or cousin or something?”

“She’d kick your ass for suggesting it!” Ash hooted. “Nah. Wandered in here, and kept falling asleep on the pool table. I help enough hunters that she figured it was worth letting me have a room.”

“So, what? You don’t actually get out there and kill things?”

“Not really.” There was something off about Ash’s voice, and Sam wondered that he’d never thought to ask before. 

“You want to?” Sam heard himself ask.

“Huh?” In the dim light, Sam watched the slender man sit up, and imagined him squinting in his direction. 

“Hey, you seem like you know what you’re doing. With the research, at least. It’s always good to have someone watching your back, so if you wanna get out there, get your hands dirty....” Sam shrugged, whether Ash could see it or not. “Plus, you’ve put up with my pissiness so far. Without actually hitting me. So long as you can shoot, it should be fine. Wanna try?”

“Dude, it’s been a couple years since I been out there. You sure you want to? I get the feeling you’ve had a lot of experience.”

“Plenty. So yeah, I’m sure I want to. I kinda like you, Ash. At least, so far.”

“Then... sure.”

“Good. Get some sleep. Gonna have to get up early, start looking for a car and some weapons and ammo.”

~  
May 26th, 2003

Ash was swaggering. Honest to God swaggering as they walked back into the roadhouse after a week on the road. He was so pleased with himself, puffed up and proud that they’d laid the angry spirit to rest. Sam just wanted a beer and a bed, and with any kind of luck, a night with no dreams. Maybe he’d be able to forget the bruises that had ringed the little boy’s neck, and ruined rasp that was his voice when he’d drawn them in with his weeping.

Ash hopped up on a stool, grinning like a fiend. Sam propped himself up next to him, and Ellen came over, all maternal indulgence. “So, how’d it go, boys?”

“Perfect,” Ash proclaimed. “As though it could go any other way.” He nudged Sam, sharp elbow to the ribs. “Right, Jesse?”

“Sure. Can I have a beer?” Sam asked, perilously close to whining. Jo swished by behind them, on her way to clear a table. Sam heard her snort, and glanced back to see her rolling her eyes towards Ash. Ellen, far more forgiving of Ash’s theatrics or Sam’s little boy whining, simply handed out a couple beers. Sam stared down into the amber depths, mind skipping back over their hunt as the woman moved away. “So, you interested in staying partners?” 

With no audience to play for, Ash calmed down considerably. Shrugging, he chugged back a third of his beer, gaze far sharper than most people would credit him capable of. “We did okay, so I don’t see why not.”

“Good. Then we’re gonna get that van that you got painted. A nice matte black, I think.”

“Oh, come on! It’s got a freakin’ awesome paint job already!”

“Ash...it’s got a painting of a mermaid getting frisky with Poseidon on one side, and Zeus doing it with a nymph on the other. In bright, vivid colors that stand out.” Sam jabbed the other man in the arm. “Considering that we’ll be leaving disturbed graves behind us, at the very least, I think a less distinctive paint job would be a good idea. You can keep the shag carpeting inside if you want,” he offered, pleased when Ash brightened. “It’ll help pad things out if we gotta sleep inside at any point.”

“We can do a lot with that van, Jesse. You’ll see, man, it’ll be great!” Ash enthused.

“And then we can all grow our hair out and smoke a bong and commune with nature,” Jo snarked, walking back the other direction with a bin full of dirty glasses. She tugged lightly on Ash’s hair, rolling her eyes at Sam. “That van is so lame, Ash. Honestly, couldn’t you have found something cooler?”

Sam frowned at her. “We’re hunters. It’s gonna serve our needs, get us from place to place, and that’s all that counts. We’re not in this job for any coolness factor.” She sniffed, continuing on her way with an extra swing in her hips.

“I think she’s got a crush on you,” Ash informed him.

“She doesn’t even know me,” Sam muttered right back. “Look, I’m gonna hit the sack. Tomorrow, why don’t you start looking for our next job? I’m gonna cruise around–on the bike–see if I can’t find somewhere to increase our funds, maybe start building up our arsenal. I’d like more than three guns and a half dozen knives between us.”

“You just have no appreciation for fine art.”

“That’s not art, Ash. That’s wannabe porn.”

“But very well done wannabe porn. Seriously, did you see the tits on that nymph? Zeus is one lucky bastard.”

A smile broke out involuntarily, and Sam shook his head. “Sorry, man. They should have put the paintings inside. We just can’t afford to be so noticeable.”

“So if I can find someone to do another painting inside....”

“I really don’t care. So long as the outside is boring, you can do what you want to the inside. I’m going to bed. Finish my beer for me, would you?” He didn’t bother to wait for a reply. There was no need, since he knew what the answer would be. Ash would never turn down a beer, or the dregs of beer, for anything.

He stripped down in that back room, eyeing the heap of cushions. They looked far more inviting than the twin bed did, but in the end, he ignored them and took the bed. Regardless of which of them would fit better, he had no right to push Ash out of his own bed. Sleep wouldn’t come easy for him anyway, no matter where he laid down.

Proud as Ash might be over the successful hunt, Sam couldn’t help but nitpick his own performance. He’d been distracted; kept checking side streets for any sign of a big black truck or even a loud black car. Kept twitching to make a comment to a man who wasn’t there, and never would be again. He’d slept like crap and woken from what little sleep he did manage strangling on a shout. He’d also warded their motel room six ways from Sunday, in spite of Ash’s strange ‘humor the crazy’ looks. He needed to learn to not think about all the shit from his past; needed to learn to suppress it so that he could focus on the here and now. If he could do that, forget and just be Jesse Moore, then things would all be okay.

A week later, Sam walked back inside the bar that was slowly starting to feel almost like home. Ellen was behind the bar, where she usually was whenever Sam saw her, and looked up from a hushed conversation with Ash. “Hello,” Sam murmured, disturbed by the intense, penetrating looks turned in his direction. “Everything alright?”

“Well, that’s hard to say. An old acquaintance of mine called this morning, Jesse. Seems a young friend of his has gone missing, and he wants me to spread the word, have people on the look out for him.” Ellen started to wipe down the already spotless bar top. “Man name of Bobby Singer, good man, and he’s looking for a young man named Sam Winchester. Those names ring a bell for you at all?”

Sam cocked his head, putting a mildly puzzled look on his face. “No. Not that I can recall, anyway. What’s this Sam’s deal?” He turned the questioning look on Ash, who was studying him with a faintly betrayed look.

“We’re not sure. He stopped hunting with his brother, was supposed to hook up with his father. Now he’s gone missing, and a few people are understandably concerned. He’s about your height, dark hair, dark eyes, and he’s got a couple tattoos. One on the back of his neck, the other at the base of his spine. You sure you haven’t seen anyone like that?” Ellen pressed.

Sam met her eyes squarely. “I don’t know any Sam Winchester. But if I can help in any way, you just let me know.”

Ellen nodded slowly, eyes going a little cold. “Sure thing, Jesse. I’ll do that.”

Still keeping up the puzzled act, Sam went to sit beside Ash. “So what’s the word on the van?”

“It’ll be finished in a couple days,” Ash grunted, not really looking at him.

“Good. I think I’ve got us fairly well stocked up. Including cash, and a couple emergency credit cards in other peoples’ names. So I’m gonna go start looking for our next gig. As soon as you’re ready to tell me why you’re in a snit, partner, you can help.” Affecting an irritated air, Sam got up to stalk to the room they shared.

It was plain as day that they knew he was Sam. He should never have come here, not when he knew full well that Bobby and Ellen knew each other. He’d been so sure that it would be safe, though. Dean didn’t know about this place, and John wouldn’t ever come here. But he’d forgotten about Bobby, and the way the man liked to keep tabs on him. And not just him, but the three guys he had living with him, all of whom Sam had seen dead; Ansem, Andy, and Max. Bobby had told them the truth, that their mothers had all died just like Sam’s, and they’d all been marked with demon blood. Just like Sam. Sam had spoken to them a few times, answering what questions he could, creating a small bond with them while Bobby went ahead and, lacking anything else to do with three eighteen year old males, trained them to hunt.

Sam should have remembered that Bobby knew that he knew about the roadhouse. Whatever his dad had told the other man to have him calling around like he was, it had obviously alarmed him. Sam could count himself lucky that Bobby hadn’t just shown up. Even if whatever he’d had started here was ruined, at least this way he could just leave without any kind of drama. Start over yet again somewhere else.

It was not really very surprising that Ash followed him. Just because he looked like a scrawny little redneck didn’t mean that he wasn’t one tough little guy who could and would handle himself. He shut the door and stared at Sam, arms crossed. Sam crossed his own back, eyebrows climbing. “Dude,” Ash said finally. “Not that I’ve said anything, but I’ve seen the tats. Both of them. You have a shower fetish or something, you were constantly walking around in a towel while we were hunting. So do me the favor of not lying.”

“Fuck.” Sam scrubbed his face, then nodded. “Fine. Keep the van, it’s well stocked. I’ll be outta here in ten.” He turned to start gathering the few belongings that had migrated out of his bag. Ash grabbed his arm, almost earning a punch. Ash had to have seen the aborted move, but held his ground.

“You don’t need to leave. But I want the truth. You wanna be some random dude named Jesse? That’s fine. But I want the whole story, or I’m on the phone to this Bobby and telling him where his prodigal son is.”

“And if I tell you...and you decide my reasons aren’t good enough?”

“I don’t want to know so I can judge. But we’re supposed to be partners. I just want the truth.”

“I...” Sam shut up, a sudden need to tell, to just unburden himself to someone, overwhelming him. “Okay. But not here. All walls have ears, and this shit is private.”

The roadhouse was located pretty much in the middle of nowhere. A half hour’s walk out the back door had them far enough away that even if someone there had something like a parabolic microphone, they would be out of range. Sam picked a spot, making sure there was nothing unpleasant, and dropped to his ass. Ash squatted facing him, looking almost predatory. “So, what do you want to know?”

“I want the whole story, man. Just tell me all of it. I swear, it goes no further.”

“All of it....you know, that’s a neat concept. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone the full story, about anything, since I was fifteen?” Sam leaned back on his hands, face tilted up to the late afternoon sun. “I’m thinking the story you want starts when I was eighteen the first time.”

“First time?”

“Yeah. See, I’ve lived these last two years twice. Longer, actually. I was almost twenty-five when I had a witch send my soul back in time, to take over my eighteen year old body.” He peeked at Ash, but Ash didn’t so much as blink. There was no disbelief there, nor any hint that he thought Sam was just yanking his chain. “My first life, I graduated highschool. Straight A’s, and I’d gotten a full ride into Stanford. I did this time, too, but since I skipped out on the last month of highschool, that was down the drain.” Sam kept on, detailing his first life, including Ash’s own death, right up until Sam came back in time. And from there through until the present day, because for him, it was all one thread. No one else in the world would have the same memories that he did. For them, it hadn’t happened, none of it. But for him? This was his history, all of it, all the pain and fear and grief. He’d lived through all of it, all the trials that had hardened him.

He wouldn’t give details about his family, or why he wasn’t with John. After explaining that his brother had met a girl he wanted to stay with, all he said was that he’d gone to team up with his dad, and the hunt his father had been on had gone wrong. Wrong enough that John hadn’t wanted him with. “I was hurt,” he finished up softly. “Neither of us realized that, I think, when he sent me away. It wasn’t until I got off a bus in Illinois and almost passed out that I realized I was bleeding. I managed to stash my things, because the thought occurred to me that the hospital would be understandably curious about the multiple i.d.’s in there, and flagged someone down to call an ambulance. I died.”

Ash jerked, startled out of his spellbound state. “Say what?”

“I died,” Sam repeated. “I’d lost so much blood by then...by the time they’d started to replace it, it was pretty much too late. They barely got me revived. That’s twice that I’ve died and someone wouldn’t just let me stay that way. Honestly, I’m getting a little sick of it. But they got me revived, and they repaired the physical damage, and I woke up in a hospital bed, with some very sympathetic nurses wanting to know who I was. Shit, Ash, Sam Winchester had a crappy life from the time he was six months old. I lost my mother, I lost the life that I should have had, I lost the woman that I loved, I lost my father, I lost so many friends it’s just pathetic, and then? Then I was losing my brother. I come back in time, bound and determined to fix it, and I did. We’d killed the demon years earlier this time, and a whole lot of people weren’t going to die, and what happens? I still lose my brother. I still lose my father, after a fashion. I know Bobby’s worried about me, I get it, but I’m just not up to dealing with any of that. I just want to–to exist, for a while. To eat and sleep and travel and hunt, and not worry about anything beyond that.”

“I can get that. But you’re hiding something. Like, say, why you sound so betrayed by your brother finding a girl. What’s up with that, man? It happens. You had a girl, why can’t he?”

Sam bit his lip, and then, suddenly, decided to just tell. Just go for it, damn the consequences. “Dean...was more than my brother. We were lovers, Ash. He’d promised me that he loved me, that it would be the two of us forever, and then he dumped me for some journalist wannabe. I came back for him, more than anyone or anything else, and I won’t apologize for that. But he was everything to me...and he fucking dumped me for her after a whole two weeks of knowing her.” He stopped himself, refusing to continue down that rant. Ash didn’t need to hear it, and he hoped that not saying it, not giving voice to his anger, would make it go away. Dean did deserve to be happy, and Sam truly wanted that for him. It just hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before that he wasn’t the one that could give it to him.

“You and your brother...man, that’s hot,” Ash whistled. Sam jerked his gaze to the other man, honestly shocked. Ash leaned back, lips twisted in a lewd smirk. “What? You never looked at twins goin’ at it on the ‘net?” he challenged. Sam had to smile, because sure, he was a guy, wasn’t he? He’d been looking at porn of various types since he’d been ten and found his brother’s stash. “Well, what makes you think the thought of two brothers is any less hot than two sisters?”

A small smile stretched Sam’s lips, and he shrugged a little sheepishly. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought of that. But now that you mention it...damn, Dean and I could have been making a fortune all this time.”

Ash laughed aloud, head thrown back and everything. Sam still couldn’t manage more than a smile, but it was real, with a touch of real humor behind it. Also a lot of relief, because seriously; confession was good for the soul. Ash calmed down and regarded him somewhat more soberly. “Look, your secrets are safe with me, Jesse. And I think you’re right, I should get a Devil’s Trap inked into me. You’ve changed things, like, a lot. But what you know, what you’ve told me, could still be used by the other side. I’ll do like you and Bobby, I’ll protect it.”

“Thank you, Ash. I–seriously, just thank you.”

Ash got to his feet, spine crackling audibly as he did. “C’mon, let’s get back. Ellen’s probably wondering if you’ve killed me.”

“Why? Just what did Bobby tell her about me, anyway?”

“Just that he was worried. She’s figured out who you are, but I’ll tell her to lay off. That it’s cool. She should stop giving you the cold shoulder.”

“I hope so,” Sam murmured. “I don’t wanna have to find somewhere else to go.”

Ash seemed a little startled over that. “You’d seriously just...take off, if this Bobby guy found out you were here?”

“In a fuckin’ heartbeat. I think you underestimate my desire to leave all that shit behind, Ash. I died twice. That’s once more than most people.” He squinted up at the sky, judging that they had about half an hour of daylight left. They’d been out there longer than he’d realized, then. “Once Bobby knows where I am, then my father knows, and Dean. Dad...probably wouldn’t come,” he mused, thinking of the guilt his dad had to be feeling. His dad never liked to admit when he’d made a mistake, so he most likely wouldn’t want to face his youngest. Ever. “Dean would. And he’d badger and bully until I caved, and told him everything, and I’m not up to that. I might never be up to telling him any of this.”

“Your call, I guess.” Ash trooped along beside him, keeping up easily with the brisk pace Sam set. “I’ll have to look and see if there’s anywhere around here that does tattoos. I wanna get that done soonest.”

“We’ve got time. Drawing it on in permanent marker will work, if you wanna shop around,” Sam offered. “You don’t wanna go somewhere for protection and end up with freakin’ hepatitis B or something.” Ash laughed again, finding that thought very amusing for some reason.

Ellen cast Sam another one of those cool looks when they returned. But Ash caught her eye, shaking his head with an overdone meaningful look. Sam allowed a hint of pleading to enter his gaze, and the combination seemed to be enough. She sighed, nodded once, and that was that. It was back to business as usual.

Sam was grateful as hell.

*  
June 5th, 2003

Sam followed Ash into the brightly lit business, eyes automatically sweeping over the interior. The walls were covered in photos, each one of an amazing piece of art. There was a wooden counter, about waist height, that ran the length of the right wall. Behind it was a door, closed very firmly. There was another door on the back wall, also shut, but emitting the faint sounds of conversation. The floor was hardwood, adding a hint of warmth to what otherwise might have been a coldly sterile place.

Ash was jittery, chewing his thumb and pacing in front of the counter, waiting for someone to come out. Sam was a little more calm, and started to peruse the pictures. They really were amazing, each a photo of someone’s wholly unique tattoo, adorning various body parts. One in particular caught his eye, that of a child, an infant, sleeping against its mother’s breast. That it was on a woman, and appeared to be sleeping on her breast, and looked completely natural and real, was what got to him. There was something about it that just...made a lump rise in his throat. He wanted to cry, grief welling for no reason that he could see. It was more moving than even the figure of the Madonna, and that had moved him since he was a child himself.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a soft voice murmured, making him jump. Sam turned to see a woman, tall but stocky, about twenty or so, smiling at him. “That’s her son,” she continued. “Or was. He was lost in a car accident.”

“God, that’s awful,” Sam breathed, taking another look. Strangely, he wasn’t actually more moved for that knowledge than he’d been without it. 

“Yeah. Now, though, she gets to keep him close to her heart. It’s not the same, but it’s something.” The woman’s fingers lightly traced the curve of the baby’s cheek. “You’re one of the few men that have come through here that didn’t snigger, or at least stare, at her breast. You’re a different sort of creature, Jesse Moore.” Sam started, hearing her speak his name, and eyed her with more suspicion. She laughed at him, but it was a warm laugh, not cold or taunting. “Relax, Jesse. Your friend Ash told me your name. I’m ready for him in back, by the way. I understand that he’s getting a copy of a tattoo you already have?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a religious symbol, so it has to be exact. You gonna do the work?”

“Yeah. If you need a reference...” Her fingers tapped the picture of the baby. “This is mine. Done based on a photo she gave me.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Sam followed her and Ash into the back, where a long hallway had rooms branching off. They all had doors, some of them even shut. But most of them remained open, permitting him and Ash to catch glimpses of the occupants, or catch snatches of conversations. Certainly to hear the buzz of the various tattoo guns hard at work. 

The three of them entered a room near the back, with yet more photos on the walls. Ash settled onto the chair while the woman, and Sam didn’t even know her damn name, started to set up. Sam perused the pictures, and then his eye fell on a couple of sketch pads. Without even asking, he lifted the top one and began to flip through it. The sketches ranged from the realistic, such as a frighteningly detailed sketch of a man’s hand, scars and calluses and hairy knuckles; to the fantastical, unicorns and dragons and fairies, oh my. 

“Okay, Jesse. I’m all set here, so I’ll need to see this symbol of yours.” Sam put the book aside, obediently taking the seat the woman pointed at. He sat backwards, much as Ash was on the chair, and lifted his hair to reveal the Devil’s Trap. He heard her grunt, and felt her get up close to see the smaller details. All was quiet for a few minutes, save for the soft skritching of pen on paper. Finally, she said, “Okay. I want you to check this, make sure it’s right. Remember guys, this is permanent.” 

Sam twisted around with a half smile. “I’ve found that very few things are permanent, miss.” He took the sketch from her, eyes scanning over the symbol quickly, approvingly noting its complete accuracy. When he looked up to give the go ahead, he found her eyeing him with raised eyebrows. “What?”

“That’s either a very bleak outlook, or a very positive one. I can’t decide. And my name in Antoinette. But I’d much rather you called me Tony.” She took the pad back when he gave it. “It’s good?”

“It’s good,” Sam assured her. “Ash, you ready?”

“If I gotta,” Ash grunted, hands white knuckled on the edges of the chair.

“You don’t. This is entirely your choice.” Ash lifted his head, giving Sam a very grumpy look.

“I’m ready. Yes, do this. Please poke many many needles into my flesh over and over again, causing me great pain. Because I love pain. It’s my best friend.” Sam smiled and scooted his stool to the head of Ash’s chair. Without asking, he lifted the long strands out of the way, exposing Ash’s neck for Tony to transfer the image. Ash attempted to look pissed, but all he managed was to look like he needed to pee. Urgent, a little scared, and trying to hide it.

“Seriously, Ash. It won’t be as bad as you think. I mean, it definitely hurts less than getting stabbed in the back with a rusty knife,” Sam promised, and Ash was one of the two people that would know he knew what he was talking about. Ash just gave him the hairy eyeball and dropped is face to the chair. Sam was pretty sure he was biting the vinyl.

A couple minutes later, Tony got started, needle gun buzzing away rather cheerfully. “So, Jesse. What did you mean by your earlier comment? I’m curious as a cat. Mom always said it would get me into trouble one day.”

“Well, they do say that curiosity killed the cat,” Sam muttered, watching as the first lines began to appear on the pale skin normally hidden by the thick hair he was holding. “But then again, how often do cats stay dead?”

“Presumably after they’ve used up their ninth life.”

“I doubt even then,” Sam said, not able to keep the slight bitterness out of his tone. Tony didn’t pause or look up, but Sam could see the way her eyebrows shot into her hairline. “I’ve died twice,” he admitted, feeling Ash tense beneath his hands in a way that had nothing to do with the pain of the tattoo. “And been revived twice. Not by my choice, and if I’d had a say, would never have been revived even the first time. So if even death isn’t permanent, why worry about a tattoo?”

“So you, what? Wish you were dead?”

“Not hardly. There’s a difference between wishing I’d been allowed to stay dead, and wishing to die. I don’t wanna die. There’s too much living left to do. If I’m in a dangerous situation, I’m going to do everything I can to make it out alive. But if I fail?” Sam shook his head. “Then I’m dead, and should stay that way. I don’t want even CPR.”

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard of someone not being grateful for having their life saved.” Tony paused in her work to glance up, gaze curious. “So does that mean that if you saw someone drowning or choking, that you wouldn’t offer first aid?”

“Not at all. My choice is for me, not for everyone else. It’s exhausting, Tony, being brought back from death. And I’m not talking just a few seconds; I was dead. And there were people who wouldn’t let me go.” Sam forced himself to sound lighter, less serious and bitter. “A little like what happened to Buffy, only without the weeks of rotting in a coffin.”

“You know what it sounds like to me? Sounds to me like you need to own it. Own your deaths, and own your life.” Topic apparently closed, Tony went back to work, and finished up the symbol in another half hour. Ash was unsteady on his feet, eyes glassy from pain and endorphins. Sam kept a steadying hand on his elbow as they were walked out, listening to Tony’s litany of after care instructions. He propped Ash against the counter while he paid, cash, not credit, and accepted a pamphlet with the same instructions. Then he all but carried Ash out to the freshly painted van.

Ash roused once they were on the road, rolling and lighting a joint right in the middle of the freeway. “Man,” he croaked, slowly exhaling a thin line of smoke. “I can-not believe you told that chick you died. I mean, what happened to low profile?”

“Who the hell is gonna connect any of that to me, Ash? Or to Sam Winchester? It’s all good, man. It’s all good.” He declined the hit Ash offered him and just kept driving.

Even a couple days later, while Ash bitched about the itch in his healing tat and looked for another job, he couldn’t get Tony’s words out of his head. Own it, she’d said. Own his deaths and his life. Not just run from it, but make all of it his. Such a novel concept, really. 

That thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Not through all the research that he insisted on helping with, even though Ash was honestly better at it than him. Not through the long drive out to a small town in California, surrounded by a stretch of woods that was too small to account for the number of people that never returned from it. Not through the hours spent in the local library, looking at records and newspaper articles that never made it online, much to Ash’s disgust. And certainly not through the night of digging up a woman’s hundred years dead body, and salting and burning it so that she couldn’t re-enact her murder on every stray hiker that got too close to the tree she was strung up from.

Their second hunt together, and Ash was just as hyped this time as the first. Sam wanted to ask why, if he liked it so much, had he been staying planted at the roadhouse. Why hadn’t he been out there, doing the job instead of just being Mr. Information guy. But it somehow didn’t feel like the right time, and anyway, he was trying to own his own life. And deaths, which was weird, but not the weirdest thing ever.

Sitting at the bar, nursing a beer in a way that earned him frequent, disgusted looks from his partner, and Ash piped up with, “Just freakin’ do it.”

Sam stared at him. “Huh?”

“You’re gonna go back to Chicago, right? To see that Tony, get another tat?”

“She’s good,” Sam allowed. “If I were gonna get another, something that wasn’t strictly for protection, I’d go to her.”

“Then stop dicking around and just do it. We both know you want to.” 

For a minute, Sam was really tempted. Then he shook his head. “Nah. I mean, I have no idea what I’d even get, and besides, they’re expensive. We need all our cash for other stuff.” Ash just gave him a disgusted look and stole his beer.

A week later, Ash herded him into the van, telling him that he’d found what he thought was a werewolf. Sam had been up all freaking night, hitting the bars in a twenty mile radius from the roadhouse to build up their funds. He had no idea how Dean had always done it, and made it seem so effortless to boot. Sam came back from such forays vibrating with tension, muscles held so tight you could bounce a quarter off any part of him. So he wasn’t thinking clearly, and willingly stretched out in back, body buffered by the long body pillows Ash had insisted on.

He woke up quite a bit later when the door slammed. Jerking upright, his gaze fell on Ash, crouched by his feet and smirking. In his hand was a fist full of cash. “Wha...”

“Dude, there are a lot of ways to make money. Your partner is a fucking genius, you know. You should use that more.” Ash tossed the cash at him. “I made the Western Union guys think my grandma wired me a thousand. I can do that any time, any place.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “That’s good to know. So what’s your point?”

“My point is that you should go talk to Tony. Don’t worry about the money. I bet she’ll help you figure out what you want, and we can fund it no matter how much it costs. Because I am seriously getting sick of you moping about it.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, and Ash held up a hand to halt him. “Just get the damned thing, whatever it’s gonna be. I mean it, it’s been distracting you. You’re no fun when you’re all distracted.”  
“No fun?” 

“Yeah. You don’t even listen to my jokes anymore. I’ve completely wasted some real gems on you lately, it’s depressing.” Ash reached behind himself to open the door, revealing the tattoo parlor. “Just do it. Live a little. We can afford anything either of us wants to do, whenever we want to do it.”

Dean had always said something similar; said that he got too lost in his head, too focused on one thing or another, and should cut loose. Even after...the last couple years, he’d still been saying it. Had been insisting on it, not knowing that there were things in Sam’s past that were deserving of a good long brood. But now, here was Ash, who knew even better than Bobby, saying the same damn thing. “Alright,” he heard himself say. “Fuck it anyway, right?” God knew he had more than enough inside him that needed a release; some kind of release, even if it was in an abstract picture on his skin, that no one but him, and maybe Ash, would ever understand. 

He slid forwards out the door, right past Ash, who was now grinning like a fiend. He stretched, finger combed his hair, and strode towards the front door.

Tony was waiting, a satisfied smile on her face for Ash which told him his partner had called ahead. “I’ve been thinking about you, Jesse,” she greeted. “Here, tell me what you think of this.” She pushed one of her sketch pads over, already opened. On the page was a bird, a phoenix, rising into the air. It had feathers of various shades, from the palest yellow to the darkest of blood reds, and eyes that were a deep amber, fierce and sad. It was rising from the flames, of course, but beneath the flames could be seen the remains of previous fires. Within those ashes, Sam could just make out his own face. He looked to Tony, eyes narrowed a little, wondering at this almost perfect representation. Never mind that any invasion into his mind or soul ought to be impossible; there are ways and loopholes for everything. “Christo,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. And Ash, too, apparently, because his partner just snorted derisively behind him. Tony looked puzzled, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker in her eyes to indicate anything else. “This is good,” he finally allowed. “I do like this. Especially the faces in the ashes, but I want those faces changed, if I could.”

“Sure thing. You got a picture or something?” Her eyes went over his shoulder to Ash, speculative.

Sam pulled out his wallet, and the folded, faded picture he kept there. It was the only one he had left, actually. There were no names on the back, since all three of them were adults, and long away from the woman that would have wanted to immortalize the moment with who and when and where. It was just the three of them, smiling and happy, leaning against the Impala. It had been taken by Bobby, not long after his father and brother had finally decided to sober up. He handed it over, keeping his face carefully blank. “This one for the first,” he instructed, tapping Dean’s too pretty face. “And this one for the second,” he finished, pointing at his father’s.

“Bring it with,” was all she said, after studying the faces for a moment.

Sam nodded, then turned to Ash. “You comin’ with?”

Ash tilted his head, faint smile hovering around his lips. “Nah. This is yours. Call when you’re done.” Hands shoved into fists, he strolled out, not a care in the world.

Sam followed Tony back to that same small room and settled himself in the chair, shirt off. Something in his expression must have clued her in as to how serious he considered this, because she didn’t attempt to make small talk. She simply went about her business, getting the inks mixed, and whatever else was involved. The buzz of the machine started up, the needle kissed his skin, and Sam closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.

Hours already in the chair, with hours yet to go, and out of the swirling, soothing blank his mind had become rose a memory. Eight years old, in third grade. Thrift store jeans and generic, cheap canvas sneakers, with an old, hole-y backpack. All of that the other kids could have forgiven, if he hadn’t also been, to their eyes, fat. The chubbiness that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many miles he ran or sit-ups he did, combined with his obvious lack of money to make him the class’s favorite target. His previous couple of grades had been spent in poorer areas, where most of the kids were dressed no better than he was. This time, they were on the very edges of an upscale neighborhood, and so his classmates were well to do. ‘Fatso’ had been a favorite. ‘Piggy’ another, both for his weight and for the smell the kids had claimed followed him around.

He’d done his best to not let it bother him, to be tough, like his dad and big brother. To not cry, because crying was only for when some of your insides were on your outside, and nothing less. But he wanted to play the games, and laugh, and have friends, and the constant taunting hurt, no matter what he tried to tell himself. There wasn’t anything he could do, not unless he wanted to get into a lot of trouble by hitting. That would Draw Attention, which was just about the worst thing, so he had to just take it. Which he’d done, hiding the tears and ruined homework, lying about the muddied clothes and the bruises from being shoved around at recess whenever the teacher wouldn’t let him stay inside.

Until one day, the sixth grade class had some kind of special assembly, which meant that they had to walk by the playground during Sam’s recess period. The worst of Sam’s tormentors had managed to get him cornered out from under the teacher’s watchful eye. They’d shoved him to the ground, where he stayed, jaw and fists clenched, trying to blink away the tears of pure frustration. He couldn’t change what he looked like, he couldn’t change what his clothes were like, and he couldn’t protect himself using any of the things Dean was so patiently teaching him under dad’s watchful eye. So he sat on the ground where he’d landed and let them laugh and jeer and name call, just wanting the day to be over so he could go home with Dean and pretend things were okay. 

Dean had seen. Seen, and broke out of the orderly little line all grade school teachers insisted upon everywhere without a thought, to march over with a fierce snarl that would someday make grown men pause and back away from a fight. It shut Sam’s tormentors up, but they’d never learned to fear, because they had always ruled everywhere they went. They hadn’t conceived that anyone wouldn’t acknowledge the superiority that their parents had always told them they had. ‘My brother’s worth a million of you little shits’ he snapped, uncaring of the two teachers descending on them, reaching down to help Sam up. ‘I ever see you brats anywhere near him again, and I’ll knock your fuckin’ heads off, even if you are babies.’ He’d wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and turned furious eyes on the teachers. ‘You all just shut up. You wait until my dad hears what you were letting them do. He’ll sue!’ Magic words, even back then, and the teachers had milled around a little, not sure how to handle the whole situation. Dean hadn’t been. Without a backwards glance, he’d guided Sam off the playground and back inside, but only to fetch their things. Then they went home.

On the way, Dean had shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at Sam very seriously. ‘They been doin’ that long?’

Miserable, Sam had looked at his feet, cheap canvas already wearing through at the big toe. ‘All year,’ he’d confessed.

‘How come you didn’t tell me?’

‘Cause I’m not a baby, Dean. An’ we’re stuck here, so what else was I gonna do?’

‘Tell me,’ Dean snapped at him. ‘They got no right to act like that, Sammy. You’re better’n them, an’ they’re just spoiled little shits. You lied to me, Sammy. You been sayin’ nothing’s wrong all year, an’ I bet they gave you a lotta them bruises and stuff, too. We’re brothers, and brothers don’t lie.’

That was worse than all the name calling, all the shoves and ruined homework put together. Sam had stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes filling with tears that he couldn’t stop, lip trembling. ‘M sorry,’ he’d whispered. ‘I just din’t wanna be a baby or make trouble.’

Dean had stopped, too, hands still shoved down his pockets. ‘It ain’t being a baby to ask for help. Especially from your big brother. That’s my job, dude. And I can’t do my job if you hide stuff from me. You gotta promise me you won’t ever do that again. Promise me, Sammy.’

‘I promise, Dean. I really do, I promise. I’m sorry.’ Sam had lost the battle with his tears and flung himself at Dean, getting caught up in a tight hug. Just like that, all was right between them again. Dean had told their father, very seriously, that it was a bad school. The kids were snobs, he and Sam stuck out, and the teachers didn’t give a rat’s behind about what happened. Dad had apparently translated between Dean’s words and the school’s report of the incident, and come up with time to move. They’d been gone within a week, settling eventually in a smaller, poorer town, where the two of them hadn’t stood out at all. At least as far as their clothes were concerned.

Sam hadn’t thought of that in years, but he supposed he couldn’t blame Dean for leaving. After all, Sam hadn’t kept his promise, had he? He’d lied, sometimes, and the things he’d kept hidden from him could fill a couple of novels. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to call his brother. To tell him anything, even a lie. Instead, he was hiding, keeping his very existence a secret. Sam guessed he was a pretty lousy brother, all told.

His tattoo wasn’t actually finished that first session. Tony got the outline, and maybe a third of the color done before she firmly called it quits. Wouldn’t allow him back for another couple of days, to give him a little time to heal. Once begun, Sam was impatient to have it finished, but he was forced to bow to her rules. 

Ash hardly minded; he liked the large city, with its myriad places to drink. Sam wasn’t himself interested in drinking, but it just wasn’t done to leave your partner alone in a strange city, in strange bars. Especially when said partner enjoyed getting so drunk. Ash was a jolly drunk, but not everyone liked jolly drunks. Especially when Ash could use words half a dozen syllables long while drunk, and most people were lucky to get out one syllable words without slurring. For some reason, that seemed to piss people off.

Two more sessions it took for Tony to finish all the color and the tiny details that brought the portrait to life on his skin. Sam didn’t know how much the thing cost; Ash paid. It was worth it, though. Worth every stolen penny. The first chance he got, which wasn’t until they’d returned to Ellen’s, he stripped off his shirt and stood in front of a mirror. His skin was still sore, a long way from being healed. But even faintly red and swollen, he could see his father’s smiling, joy-filled face, hovering a couple inches beneath his sternum. Beneath that...Dean. Dean smiling as he had that day, just hours from Sam’s bed and eyes filled with secrets and mirth. Dean who hadn’t caused his first death, not directly, only barely indirectly; but in whom Sam’s thoughts of that time were irrevocably entwined. He couldn’t think of his death without thinking of Dean selling his soul to undo it. Couldn’t think of his trip back through time, starting over, without thinking of all of that. It was all one knot in his mind, threading around on itself, making sense only to him, really.

Having it all out there, however little anyone else would understand it, helped settle something in Sam. As if inking it into his skin meant that he didn’t have to think of it every second of every day. He could just let it be.

*  
September 2nd, 2003

Sam scowled, slapping at a mosquito, eyeing the tall trees surrounding them with suspicion. He hated camping, he really did. Ash didn’t like it anymore than he did; he’d very nearly backed out of the hunt when he’d found out they couldn’t bring any beer along. But these woods had been closed to any groups smaller than ten, thanks to frequent disappearances, and so they’d had to join a group with an official guide. Which meant no booze. And pretending to be an actual camper. 

Not that they planned to stay with the group, of course. That would be rather awkward.

The problem, the whole reason they were there, was a skinwalker. Sam was sure of it. And skinwalkers were tough bastards to kill, simply because they were smart. They’d been human, once, before they’d chosen to become the creature. So they had a human’s intelligence (something that Ash generally found to be a debatable thing) with the ability to become some kind of animal, and they were totally evil. It took a deliberate act of evil, of murder, to become a skinwalker. They had no way of knowing which animal it would look like; could be a bear, or a mountain lion, or a fucking raccoon for all they knew.

From the way the hair on the back of his neck was prickling, it was watching them right then.

Glancing at Ash and getting a nod, Sam simply resigned himself to waiting. It was still late afternoon, and they were still in the group. The ‘walker wouldn’t attack such a large group. No, it would wait for one or two of them to be stupid enough to leave, preferably at night. Sam and Ash planned to be just that stupid.

“I still can’t believe you wouldn’t let me bring any beer,” Ash grumbled, shifting his pack. 

“It was hard enough hiding the weapons,” Sam muttered. “There wasn’t room for beer.”

“Man, where are you from? There’s always room for beer.”

Sam flashed him a grin, stepping over a small log. “Dude, that’s jell-o. There’s always room for jell-o.” 

Ash’s forehead wrinkled, and he almost tripped going over the same log he was so distracted. “No,” he said finally. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s beer there’s always room for. I hate jell-o, I would never eat it, but I can always fit in a beer.”

“No, man, the commercials. Don’t you ever pay attention to the commercials? That’s been a jell-o slogan for years.” Sam took a swig of water, offering it to Ash. When it was declined, he shrugged and continued. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with jell-o. It’s just a little, uh, jiggly. Also, it’s good for you when you’re sick.”

“That shit is not natural. Have you ever paid attention to the texture of it? Something liquid should not become a solid unless it’s full on frozen. I mean, what is jell-o anyway? It’s a damn chemical with artificial flavors to make you think it’s yummy. And then they add whipped cream, or bits of fruit or something, and they call it dessert. That’s not dessert; chocolate cake is dessert. Cherry pie is dessert. Beer is dessert. Jell-o? Is a conspiracy.” Ash continued on in the same vein, blithely ignoring the dirty looks cast his way from the other campers, who would all much rather coo over the wonder of nature than listen to him explain just why jell-o was evil.

When they went missing that night, Sam figured they wouldn’t be missed too much.

The sun was low on the horizon when the guide called a halt. By Sam’s standards, they hadn’t made very good time. Something in the long suffering sound of the guide’s voice told him the man agreed, and didn’t actually enjoy having to baby sit a bunch of middle aged hippies ‘getting back to nature’ and ‘roughing it’. Most of them had ridiculously expensive tents that came complete with instruction books. Whole books, just to tell you how to put up a tent. Even with the books, the guide was having to go around to help, rather than being able to get the fire pit dug, or supper started. Sam threw up their little two man pup tent, chucked their packs inside, and flopped to the ground. He and Ash watched the spectacle for a couple minutes in silence. “You feel sort of sorry for him, don’t you?” Sam murmured after a while.

“Kinda hope he gets paid a lot,” Ash agreed. Sam gave him a pointed look, which Ash was able to ignore for all of two minutes. Then, “Oh, all right. Man, you are a buzz kill.” Grumbling not quite under his breath, Ash got up to help the guide put up the far bigger than needed tents. Sam went and got started on the fire, taking the opportunity while he was getting firewood from the pre-stocked pile (and what was wrong with just looking? Was that really so hard?)to walk the perimeter and sketch a few symbols into the dirt in a circle around the site. He didn’t want the ‘walker to decide he and Ash were too difficult as prey and go for the yuppies. 

With the fire started, and the little folding grill thing from the guide’s pack open above it, Sam flopped back onto the ground in front of their tent to watch Ash not so patiently put up stupidly complicated tents with the guide. The owners weren’t even pretending to help anymore, and the guide had a look of complete relief on his face. Between the two of them, they were getting all six of the tents put up pretty fast. When the last one was up, and the pair of them turned around and spotted the fire burning cheerfully, the poor guy looked like he was ready to cry, he was so happy. He didn’t even seem to mind having to cook multiple cans of ravioli.

Ash flopped beside him, lip curled in the direction of the other campers. “Man. Can we use them as bait?”

Sam cocked his head, considering. “Maybe. If we don’t get it tonight.” They watched one of the campers, a man with a serious martini lunch belly, prod at one of the supports for his tent. It, quite naturally, collapsed. Sam felt the corner of his mouth quirk up, sucked his cheeks in to prevent the grin, and turned to Ash expectantly.

“Not a chance in fucking hell, Jess,” Ash told him, calm but firm as the man began to bitch at the guide.

“Well...” Sam studied the scene unfolding in front of them for a minute. “Let’s strip him naked and send him into the woods. One bite, and the ‘walker’ll be dead from the poison.” Ash busted out laughing, drawing all eyes to them. Sam curled his lip, making them all turn away with various indignant looks. “Or we could just shoot him,” he finished. Ash snickered again, and they settled in to wait.

It took a while, but eventually the group finished eating and bitching about their blisters, and the lack of an actual bathroom to use, and the fact that they’d sweated, and gone to bed for the night, tents zipped up tightly to ward off the early fall chill. Quiet as mice, Sam and Ash slid their packs back on, tucking pistols loaded with silver into their waistbands, and crept out of their tent. The tent they would leave behind, as it was just a cheap prop to keep them from standing out too much. At this point, what Sam figured would happen was that the guide would recall their competence, figure they’d struck off on their own, and suffered the same fate as so many of the campers from over the summer had. The theory of law enforcement was, as always, a serial killer.

Sam supposed that, from a certain point of view, they were right.

Moving through the trees wasn’t fun. There was no moon, and what little starlight might have illuminated their way was hidden from them by the trees. It was disorienting, not to mention hazardous. But while they wanted the ‘walker to come after them, and so weren’t worried about a flashlight giving them away, a flashlight would ruin their night vision. Not something most animals had to worry about, unless it was something like a bat. They were already at enough of a disadvantage sense-wise; no sense making it any worse.

After about an hour of careful, steady hiking that either took them deeper into the woods or in a giant circle, Sam got that feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his stomach tightened with anticipation. It was close; really close, not that they could hear a thing. Sam glanced at Ash, seeing the look of intense concentration on the other man’s face. Listening, straining his inadequate human senses for a hint of sound or smell. Sam shifted so that he was at an angle, almost but not quite back to back so that they could keep an eye on each other. He, too, strained every sense that he had, including that other, the one that gave him certain kinds of vibes. He hadn’t had any visions, not yet and maybe not ever again, but that hadn’t gone dormant when he’d been sent back. It helped, sometimes.

Not this time. The ‘walker not only decided that they were tasty looking prey, but chose Ash as its first target. It leapt, a huge dark grey wolf with glinting red eyes and dripping, ivory fangs, from out of the inky blackness that surrounded them. Ash had just enough time, barely a second, to put up his arms before his throat got ripped out. The pair went down, Ash letting out a startled yelp and a grunt as his back connected with the hard ground. Sam had his gun out, aimed and ready, but unable to fire thanks to the ‘walker’s position over Ash. The bullet would go right through, close as he was, and right into Ash. But Ash wasn’t stupid. He got his legs under him and heaved, launching the ‘walker over his head with the last of its forward momentum. Sam fired, hearing a high pitched yelp, then fired again after it landed. It was still moving, struggling to gain its feet, as Sam reached down a hand to help Ash up. 

Ash looked irritated, pulling his shredded shirt out from his chest. “Fucker. I liked this shirt.” He looked the ‘walker dead on and shot, sending a final round into its heart.

Sam hated what happened when you killed a shifter, weres and ‘walkers and all the rest; the way the magic that changed their form melted away with their last breaths, leaving behind a pale, naked man that wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst the yuppies they’d left behind, his only covering the pelt of a wolf. “Got the salt?” he grunted, sliding his pack off to get out the kerosene and matches.

“Yeah. It’s pretty dry, man.” Sam paused, raising an eyebrow at him. “Gotta camp shovel,” Ash explained. “We should clear a spot, dig a hole or something so that we don’t, say, start a damn forest fire. Ya think?”

Looking at the ground, Sam realized that they were standing on a carpet of dry pine needles and dead leaves. Burning the ‘walker would start a fire, unless they dug a pit first. “Aw, shit. You realize how many roots we’re gonna have to chop through to get a hole deep enough?” he groaned. He dug his own camp shovel out of his pack, unfolding and locking it into place. It was ridiculously tiny for the job it had to do. 

It took a stupidly long time to dig a hole three feet deep, which Sam decided was damn well good enough. They were both filthy, streaked with dirt and with pine needles stuck to their clothes and any exposed skin. Ash had them sticking out of his hair, even, and that alone tempted a slight smile out of Sam. Just a brief one, though, because they still had a body to burn.

~

Sam had rarely been so glad to see a cheap motel in his life. By virtue of the bruises on his chest from the ‘walker’s attack, Ash got the first shower. Sam sat on the thinly stuffed chair, rotating his shoulders and trying to work the stiffness out of them. Honestly, digging a hole in dirt threaded through with the roots of the dozens of surrounding trees with only a folding camp shovel wasn’t fun. Not anything like fun. Also, it hurt, and he hadn’t had sore body parts from digging since he’d been fourteen. 

Ash was, mercifully, quick in the shower. He even left hot water for Sam, which was a feat considering how long his hair was, and how difficult it could be to get the stench of burning body out of it. When Sam got out, the other man was already asleep, long hair a damp tangle around his face. He threw on a pair of pants and a t-shirt, double checked the room’s protections, and went to bed himself. After a full day of hiking (even if the slow walk they’d been forced to do didn’t really count as hiking) and a night of digging and burning and hiking back out, he was fucking tired.

His exhaustion let him sleep for a solid four hours before the nightmares got bad enough to wake him. Practically a record for him these days, when two hours was his standard. Ash was still snoring lustily, sprawled out on his back, so at least he hadn’t been shouting. He got up to do his usual post-nightmare routine: check the salt in front of door, windows, and air vent, verify the weapons around the room were in place and loaded, then stand under a frigid shower for a few minutes to clear the cobwebs and lingering fear. The phantom ache deep inside his belly wouldn’t go away for a day or two, which told him just which flavor of nightmare it had been this time. He knew, from experience, that it would return if he slept again so soon. So he didn’t. Instead, he changed into running clothes and left, leaving a note for Ash in case his partner woke up while he was gone.

Running didn’t help much. A full six miles at least, running full out until his side was cramping and he couldn’t breathe, and the ache was still there. Pain for the Winchester men brought out only one thing: anger. They’d never been able to sit and moan about how much they hurt. Da–They’d always been encouraged to get pissed as hell over it. As a consequence, Sam now found himself with a low, simmering anger that had nowhere to go.

Back at the motel room, he showered yet again, ridding himself of the sweat that dripped off of him, before dressing and sitting down with his laptop. Ash’s was better, of course. Yet Sam still wasn’t inclined to give his own up. It was perfect for times like this when he needed something to do. He forced himself to focus, trolling through website after website, scanning articles and blogs and newsfeeds for a hint of something to hunt. By the time Ash woke late that afternoon, he had two potentials bookmarked. 

Ash took one look at his face and kept his distance.

Packed up and on the road for a few hours, and Sam was finally starting to feel tired again. Ash was in the back, doing...something, allowing Sam to drive with as much space as possible. And he still hadn’t had his beer, even, making it all the more generous on his part. Sam started looking for a place to stop for the night, and pulled into the first town off the interstate that boasted more than a church and a few houses. 

Ash seemed mildly surprised that they’d stopped so soon after getting on the road, but he didn’t comment. He let Sam check them into the motel, helped carry in their bags, and grinned fit to split his face when Sam suggested they check out the bar down the block.

The bar was country. So country, Sam was surprised that it didn’t actually have sawdust on the floor. With his sleeveless flannel and mullet, Ash stood out less than Sam did for once. Neither of them were much for country music, but for the cold beers and hot, greasy burgers, they could ignore it. Sam tucked himself into the far corner, back to the wall. He kept his gaze flitting about, while Ash was more social. As Sam watched, Ash smiled and began chatting to a hot, if trashy, blonde who’d given him a little smile. She seemed really into his partner, and hell. Who was Sam to get in the way of steamy sex for someone? He got up to use the bathroom, passing behind his partner and slipping him the room key where the woman wouldn’t see.

When he got out, Ash and the blond were gone.

Sam settled in for a long wait, nursing his second beer of the night. It was maybe an hour after Ash left that someone got his full attention. A man, tall and solid, dressed in what were probably his farm clothes, stomped in. He went right up to the bartender, demanding to know where ‘Cheryl’ was. The bartender, a nasty smirk twisting his mouth, pointed at Sam as an answer.

Straightening in his seat, Sam met the guy’s eyes squarely as he was approaching. “Something I can do for you?” he asked evenly.

“Yeah. Where the fuck is my girlfriend?” Jaw sticking out, fists clenched, biceps flexing, he was the very picture of menace.

Sam tilted his head. “I have no idea. I’m just passing through town. Other than him,” he nodded at the bartender, “I haven’t spoken to anyone.”  
Plainly confused, the guy turned to the bartender. “Bill?”

“Hey, she left with his friend. Skinny little guy, long hair,” the bartender, Bill, drawled. They were drawing an audience, the other locals taking an interest in their little drama.

“Aw, Dave. Your pussy run out to find another dick again?” someone shouted, vicious laughter in their voice.

Dave’s face flushed angrily, making him ugly rather than plain. Not the first time, then, and Sam could almost feel sorry for him. The way people were snickering, enjoying his humiliation, had to be driving the knife in deeper. But rather than getting angry at the crowd or his girlfriend, Dave turned all that anger towards Sam. “Listen, you pretty little bitch,” he snarled, low and mean. “I wanna know where your buddy took my girl, right fuckin’ now. Or I’m gonna smash your face into paste. You got me?”

“Oh, I think I get you. You can’t keep your girl satisfied, so you get pissed at everyone else when she goes looking for somethin’ better,” Sam taunted, adrenalin flooding his veins. “Well, tough luck. But where my pal went is none of your business.”

The fist to the face felt perversely good. It knocked him off his stool onto the floor, and Sam grinned up at his opponent, blood trickling down his chin. “No wonder she steps out on you. You ain’t much better than a girl yourself. You call that a punch?” he sneered. “I’ve had better from ten year old girls.” Dave’s mouth twisted into a matching sneer, and he reached down like he was gonna haul Sam to his feet. Sam grabbed his wrist, stood, twisted the guy’s arm behind his back and slammed his face into the bar top. The whole bar could hear the crack as his nose broke, along with a couple of teeth. Then Sam let go, stepping back to allow the guy to regroup, cursing through blood. When he turned to face Sam again, Sam could tell that he wasn’t really even thinking anymore, multiple kinds of pain clouding his mind. Sam set his feet and waited for the next attack, unaware of the gleeful, manic grin splitting his face.

~

He could hear muffled laughter, some stumbling around, and low voiced conversation coming from the room. Sam kept leaning against the wall beside the door, arms crossed over his chest. It wasn’t long at all before the door opened, and Ash escorted the blond outside. Sam let his arm fly out, blocking their path. “Hey, Cheryl,” he drawled, eyes locking onto her startled blue ones. “Dave says hi.” She blanched a little, eyes flickering over him, noting his swollen, split lip. “I’m not sure I like this game you’ve got going on, y’know? I mean, really, I don’t care, except that you got my friend involved in your little domestic power struggle, and you knew full well that your boyfriend was going to come looking to beat the shit out of him. And that I really don’t appreciate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tried.

“Uh, Jess? You wanna explain...” Ash eyed him warily. “You look pissed.”

“I am. But I think Dave is even more pissed than me. Or, well, he will be. Once he regains consciousness.” He smiled brightly at the woman. “Dave fell down. A few times. You might wanna have that looked at.” He looked at Ash, waiting patiently for an explanation. “Cheryl here is the town slut, man. Got herself a boyfriend named Dave. And whenever she gets a little mad at Dave, she hits the bar. None of the locals will fuck her anymore, because Dave follows not too long after and beats up whoever she’s bangin’. So she sticks to out of towners. Like me and you. It seems to be the favorite local pastime, watching her little drama. She’s a skank in a woman’s clothes, man.”

“Great,” Ash sighed. “I’m glad I used a rubber. So, what, you took care of Dave? Aw, that’s sweet of you, man. But I coulda taken him.”

“Not while you were naked. Besides, I had fun.” He focused back on Cheryl. “Now listen, when Dave gets out of the hospital...”

“Hospital?!” she screeched. “What the hell did you do to him, you son of a bitch?”

“Put his little bitch ass in its place,” Sam told her coolly. “You wanna be more careful who you pick as his punching bag, because one of these days, he’s gonna tangle with someone who won’t be as nice as I was.” She drew her hand back for a slap. “I hit back, girl or not,” he warned.

Cheryl wavered, eyes spitting venom. In the end, she simply huffed out a, “Mother fucker!” and turned on her heal to storm off.

“Hospital?” Ash asked. “That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Ash held his hands up, backing off. “Do we need to be leaving?”

“....probably. When Dave wakes up, he’s probably gonna want to press charges.”

“I’ll finish getting dressed.”

Sam grabbed the bulk of their stuff as Ash took a quick shower and dressed. Since Ash was all post-coital drowsy, Sam drove, permitting the other man to sleep in the back. He was heading them back to the roadhouse, since they were between jobs, and research that could be done as easily there as anywhere else.. 

He was driving mostly on automatic, mind a pleasant blank. Somewhere around two in the morning, he realized that they’d entered Missouri. They were very close, probably the closest they’d ever been, to Cape Girardeau. To Dean. Hands clenching on the wheel, he wavered. It would be nothing, an hour’s drive, to get them there. He just didn’t know if he wanted to. If he could handle seeing his brother with someone else. But maybe....  
Ash came up to the front a little over an hour later, as Sam was pulling into a truck stop on the very edge of town. “Dude, where are we?” he yawned.

“Cape Girardeau,” Sam told him shortly, not wanting to talk about it.

“Oh. We stayin’ long?”

“No. Not long.”

INTERLUDE:

Dean yawned, stumbling out of the house to get the mail. He still couldn’t get used to these early mornings, and smelling the wet grass as he woke up instead of as he was going to sleep. Couldn’t get used to having a regular schedule he was meant to keep, or having bills he had to pay. It made Cassie laugh at him whenever they sat down with the checkbook, but it was harder than hell to shake off the habits of a lifetime. “Speaking of bills....” he muttered, pulling out the stack of white envelopes. He flipped through them idly, and a flash of color floating to the ground caught his eye. A postcard. He bent to pick it up, eyebrows shooting up when he saw that it was from Cape Girardeau. Who in town would send them a postcard from town? That was just stupid. He flipped it over, painfully familiar handwriting hitting him in the chest, stealing his breath.

Dear Dean,

hey, man, nice house! Did you get a rash when you first moved in, like you always thought you would? How bad does the Impala piss off your neighbors? Cassie Winchester, huh. Sorry I missed the wedding, btw. Busy, you know how it is. Congratulations and all that, I guess. Tell her I said hi.

P.S. I haven’t forgotten my promise, Dean. I’m still your brother.

It wasn’t signed, not that it needed to be. “Sammy,” he whispered, fingers in danger of tearing the precious pasteboard. Months with no word. Whatever had happened with Dad, Sam had been in the wind ever since. Now this. Sam knew where he lived, had been there, seen his house. Left the postcard in his mailbox. Had been within yards of him, and he hadn’t known. Somehow, he hadn’t sensed his brother’s presence like he’d always been able to before.

“Dean? The coffee’s getting cold, babe. Come inside.” Dean looked up, looked at his wife silhouetted in the doorway, slinky robe doing little to hide her curves. He had to force a smile, force a light into his eyes. He’d made his choice, and now he had to live with it. The least he could do was make sure one of the three of them wasn’t miserable.

*

November 12th, 2003

Sam scanned the cemetery constantly, picking his way around headstones and decorative trees. Trying to be alert for any hint of the hellhound, even though the damn things were the dictionary definition of ‘stealthy’. Ash was hard on his heels, behind and a little to his left, doing a fair job of keeping quiet himself. Until he stepped on a twig, the slight crack sounding unnaturally loud in the chill night air.

The beast took that as a signal to attack. Sam heard the growl and began to turn, gun raised. Ash let out a yell and shoved him, just as white hot pain traveled down Sam’s face and bounced off his shoulder. He couldn’t stop the low cry it wrenched from him as he went down, one hand, the one without the gun, went instinctively to his face in a useless attempt to stop whatever it was that was causing the sensation. But the shot that rang out a moment later forced him to open his eyes, to see. He twisted off his belly onto his back in time to see the hound skidding to a stop, about ten feet from where he and Ash were sprawled. Ash had landed better than he had, on his back with his gun up, but his shot had missed the heart.

The hound turned, blood red eyes glowing in the dark, steam rising off of its leathery skin in the cold. It seemed to grin, almost, and leapt right at Sam. They both fired, the duel impacts halting the beast’s flight and flinging it backwards. One of them got the heart, and Sam didn’t much care which, just so long as those eyes went cold and dark, and it failed in its efforts to eviscerate him. He breathed hard, fire still singing along his face and shoulder, blood dripping into his eye, unable to quite put his gun down.

“Shit! God damn fucking fuck! Jess, man, are you hurt? Stupid question, how bad is it?” Ash demanded, appearing in Sam’s line of sight and far more frantic than the situation called for.

Knuckling the blood from his eye, Sam flicked the safety on his gun and tucked it away. He didn’t even want to see his face; he was pretty sure the whole left side had been shredded by the hound’s claws. “Calm down, Ash,” he ordered sharply, grabbing the hands that were reaching to touch his wounds. “Seriously. It’s nothing too serious.” Ash didn’t look convinced. Or calm. “Ash, you need to burn the carcass. Can you do that?”

“Fuck the body! You’re bleeding like a stuck fucking pig, man. We gotta get you to a hospital. C’mon, Jesse.” Ash reached for him again, apparently intent on carrying him, if need be.

Sam fended him off again, climbing to his feet unaided. “No. I’ll head back to the van. You salt and burn the hellhound. Ash!” He smacked his partner rather sharply across the face, startling him rather than hurting him. “Listen to me; we have to burn that body. It’ll poison everything within twenty miles if we don’t. Do you need me to do it?”

Ash took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head. “No. I got it. Go get holy water on those. I’ll be right behind you,” he promised, returning to something like calm.

“Okay.” Sam didn’t waste anymore time, turning and moving as swiftly as he could manage back to the van. There were certain things they kept right in front by the doors, and holy water was one of them. Several plastic jugs of it, in fact. Sam grabbed one now and didn’t hesitate to dump it over his face, pulling what remained of his shirt off to get his shoulder. Steam rose from the hissing claw marks, the holy water battling the hell taint left behind. It hurt just as much as getting the injuries in the first place, but it had to be done. Because with things like hellhounds, corporeal creatures that originated from hell, the injuries they inflicted wouldn’t heal. It was like they left behind some kind of poison, and until it was flushed from a wound, the wound would continue to burn and bleed, never healing. The only solution was holy water. All the peroxide in the world wouldn’t do a damned thing.

Sam went through bottle after bottle, pouring mechanically over the wounds. He kept pouring until Ash appeared and took the latest bottle out of his hands. “It ain’t smokin’ anymore, Jess. You can stop.”

“Still fuckin’ hurts,” Sam got out, teeth still clenched against some serious yelling.

“Well duh. That thing sliced and diced your face. And your shoulder. It’s gonna hurt for a while.” As he spoke, Ash pulled the first aid kit out and opened it. Whatever his meltdown had been about, Ash seemed completely over it. His hands were sure and steady as the pulled out bandages and tape, peroxide and pills. He doused every last claw mark with the peroxide to get rid of the more mundane taint, before taping down bandages. He shook one of the pills out last and shoved it unceremoniously between Sam’s lips. “Swallow. It’s gonna suck when we get back to the motel.”

“Like I’m gonna argue?” Sam did him one better and bit the pill, chewing and swallowing the bitter thing to get it working faster. He started to feel a little dizzy almost immediately, and Ash had to help him get laid out in the back, braced on his right side. Sam heard the doors slam, and moments later the van was in motion.

Everything started to get pretty hazy for him. The pain faded to a distant, unimportant throb. What did have his attention was the pornographic portrait Ash had had painted on the side. Those were some well endowed fairies, of both genders. And he would swear that they were really moving, flying and fucking in front of his face. 

It wasn’t fair, really. Sam wanted to have wings, too. Fairies were selfish little shits, hogging the damn things. Sam would look totally bitchin’ if he had wings.

Ash’s face blocked his view of the little fornicating bastards. Sam sat up at his urging, eyes now more focused on Ash’s hair. The way the street lights played over it, sort of made it glow. It was pretty.

“Thanks. I like your hair, too,” Ash told him. Ash was amazing. He could read minds. And he liked Sam’s hair. No one ever liked Sam’s hair. They always said it was too long. But Sam liked his hair. He thought it was nice and soft, and he really liked it when Dean ran his fingers through it. Except Dean was with that reporter tramp now. So there wasn’t anyone to pet his hair, which sucked.  
“Yeah, it does. We can drive by and egg their house later. Can you hold still right now?” Ash asked.

Why should he hold still? They weren’t back at the motel yet. And he didn’t have to hold still until they were at the hotel and ready to do his stitches. “We are back, and I am ready to do your stitches.” Ash held up a shiny, sharp needle. “So hold still.” Sam’s face started to sting, but only a little. Nothing like getting the phoenix done had. Now that had hurt, but it was worth it. He liked having at least some of his history out on display. It was honest, without really being honest. He just hoped that bad doggy hadn’t messed it up. Tony would be so mad at him. “Your tat is fine, Jess. Relax.” Ash was so cool! He could read minds! Plus, he had pretty hair. It was thick and soft, and he kind of wanted to pet it....

Sam’s mouth tasted awful. Plus, his face and shoulder throbbed. Then there was the headache. Sam kind of wished he hadn’t woken up. He cracked an eye, spotting Ash immediately. He was sitting beside him on the bed, computer in his lap, typing away. “What timest?” Sam slurred.

“2:30 pm. How ya feelin’?”

“Like road kill. Only worse.” Sam pushed himself upright, fingers gently probing at the bandages covering his face. “How bad?” he asked, his memory of the night before somewhat fuzzy.

“Pretty bad,” Ash murmured. “Five long gashes from your hairline to your jaw, and along your shoulder. You nearly lost the eye, and I’m fairly sure they’ll scar. I’m sorry, man.” He snapped his computer shut, but didn’t look up. “I wish I knew how to make this right.”

“O—kay. I feel like shit. So maybe that’s why, but that didn’t make any sense at all,” Sam drawled.

“Dammit, Jesse! It’s my fault!” Ash rolled off the bed to pace, almost dropping his laptop in the process. “I should have been paying better attention to where I was stepping. If I had...”

“Oh, shut up,” Sam snapped, startling Ash into doing just that. “It was a hellhound, Ash. It was watching us, stalking us, from the time we set foot in that cemetery. It would have attacked no matter what.” Ash stared at him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “That fuckin’ thing didn’t attack because you stepped on a twig. If anything, you saved my life, man. If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way, I’d have been kibble.”

“But...”

“But nothing.” Sam rolled off the bed, head spinning sickeningly for several seconds, thanks to his drug hangover. “Get us packed up, would you?” he asked, hand pressed to his head. “I wanna get out of this hole.” He sort of lurched to the bathroom, not allowing Ash a chance to protest or argue his guilt any further. By the time he got out, Ash had everything packed and out in the van, and was waiting with a frustrating sort of meekness beside the door. Sam lurched passed him, heading for the back of the van, with its sleeping bags laid out nice and comfy in the back. There was no way he was driving when he couldn’t even walk straight yet.

He dozed fitfully, not caring where Ash was headed, until after dark. Ash stopped for gas, and Sam got up to use the bathroom, pleased to find that the worst of his headache and dizziness was gone. Only the burning in his face and shoulder remained, pain that he could deal with.

Ash still wouldn’t look at him straight on. His little pep talk hadn’t had much of an effect, then. Attempting to hide his growing worry, Sam strolled into the convenience store to use the bathroom. He had a very vague plan, which consisted mostly of ‘get Ash high’ followed by ‘make Ash talk’. To that end, once he’d finished in the bathroom, he stocked up on plenty of junk food and soda. Ash always got a case of the munchies when he was high.

Outside, Sam shoved his overstuffed plastic sacks at his partner, throwing Ash slightly off balance. While Ash was still fumbling them, Sam fished the keys out of his pockets. “I’m driving,” he announced.

“All you had to do was say, asshole,” Ash bitched. 

“I’m saying. Get in.” Making a face, Ash climbed in, stashing the bags in the back.

By sticking to the back roads, Sam found what he wanted relatively quickly: a seemingly random dead end with nothing at the end, camouflaged by trees and high grass. It was sheer luck that no snow had fallen, or that the weather hadn’t turned seriously cold. Another month or two into the winter, and there wouldn’t be any sleeping in the van unless they were much further south than they were. Still, Ash looked distinctly unhappy as Sam parked and dragged out the lawn chairs that they kept for these sorts of occasions. Well, that Ash kept. They wouldn’t have occurred to Sam to get, too used to not having any room. He gave Ash a little half smile, unwilling to move half of his face enough to make it a real one. “C’mon, man. I think we both need to relax, unwind. I know you brought some of that weed I’m always smellin’ on you.” Ash looked a little abashed, but nodded. “Well, dig it out. Maybe it’ll let me sleep halfway decent tonight, ‘cause I sure ain’t taking another one of those pills. They give me such a fuckin’ hangover....” 

~

Sam tilted his head back, resting it on the metal back of the lawn chair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this loose-limbed and relaxed. He could see why so many people smoked this stuff. He thought he might get some real sleep for once. A good thing, seeing as how they’d be sharing the tight confines of the van. Sam glanced over, watching his partner smoke the last of the joint, eyes closed half way in seeming bliss. “Do you like this life?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Whaddya mean?” Ash croaked back, talking around the smoke held inside his lungs.

“Do you like hunting?” Sam waved a hand vaguely. “Coming up against horrors out of hell, seeing the results of all kinds of human tragedies....pain, fear, death, destruction. Being one of a handful of people in the world that knows what’s out there and how to kill it. Moving around, only having a van and a relatively small room to call home. Having to be a criminal to pay for food and gas and ammo. Do you like it?”

“Man.” Ash exhaled, blowing a couple smoke rings as he did. “Pot makes you all philosophical. No more for you.”

“I’m serious,” Sam insisted. “You’re a genius, Ash. For real. You could get into any school you liked, probably even back into MIT if you wanted. From there...you could have any job you liked.”

“So could you,” Ash pointed out. “It’d be nothin’ to graduate highschool, get into college. You did it once, you said. So why don’t you?”

“You know why. I’m not the boy I was when I did that. I...I’d never be able to relax. To really live it, y’know? I’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop for the rest of my life, and I’d be miserable.” He nudged one of Ash’s feet with his own, both of them resting their feet on the back bumper of the van. “Now you. You’ve heard my life story. I’m curious about yours. Especially after how freaked you were by a few scratches.” He gestured at his face. 

“Scratches, he says.” Ash snorted, nudging back with his foot. “There ain’t much to my life story, man. I’m an orphan. Parents died in a car wreck when I was a toddler, and I did the round of foster homes until I hit eighteen. Nobody wanted to adopt a kid that was smarter than they were, never mind how I showed their own little spawn up in school. Got accepted at MIT with a full ride,” he flashed a grin, knowing and comradely, sharing the joke. Acknowledging something they had in common. “And then my sophomore year I saw my roommate get his heart torn out and eaten by something that looked almost human, but not quite.” He shrugged. “Got into hunting that way. Got kicked out for a bar brawl, though. Eventually made my way to Ellen’s.”

“huh.” Sam stretched his leg out, managing to hook the toe of his sneaker in the handle of one of the plastic bags. He was starving, it was so weird. He usually had to remind himself to eat. “You know,” he murmured, digging through the bags of chips and bottles of soda, “if you didn’t want to tell me, it’s cool. But I don’t need the Cliff’s Notes of the PG version.” He cut his eyes to the side again, noting the guilty look on Ash’s face. “You listened to me when I didn’t even know I needed someone to. You’re my partner and my friend, and I’ll do the same for you. No question, no judgement.”

“I freaked out on you and you wanna know why,” Ash guessed, and Sam nodded. “Fair enough. Guess you could say I had a flashback.” He shook his head, declining the cheetos Sam offered him. “It didn’t take me long after I got kicked out before I ran into another hunter. ‘Bout my age, I guess, named Rick. Never did try to dig anything up on him for some reason. Never needed to, maybe. He’d been in the business a few years, and was more than willing to take me on as a partner.” He gave Sam a lopsided smile. “Easy money, thanks to my amazing hacking abilities. And I was fucking awesome at the research. I got him killed.”

Sam paused with a handful of scary orange things halfway to his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Told me to stay put, don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I didn’t listen, and he died saving my life. Got ripped into bloody confetti by some fuck’s twisted amalgam of a hell creature.” Ash leaned forward, snagging a beer out of their emergency supply. He tipped it back, swallowing it all down in one go, in the way that only professional drinkers could manage. Then he chucked the empty bottle into the trees, uncaring of the sound of breaking glass. “It looked a lot like that hellhound, and I never did find out what twisted son of a bitch had created it.”

“Sure it was created? Not summoned?”

“Rick was. I couldn’t find evidence one way or the other. Either way....” Ash shrugged. “Either way, it killed him, and it was my fault.”

Sam was quiet for a while, munching and thinking all of that over. “I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what measure of blame is really yours. But I can tell you this: some measure of it belongs to Rick himself. You don’t take a rookie into that kind of situation, with that kind of beast, without realizing that one of you is likely to get really hurt, if not dead.” Ash opened his mouth, anger glinting unfamiliar in his eyes. Sam stalled him with an upraised hand. “I’m not disrespecting him, Ash. I’m just telling it like it is. You’d never do it, because you know. And I’m sure he did too, so some of that weight is his. But my real point is this: you gotta get square with it, man. You gotta face it and come to terms with it, or it’s gonna eat you alive someday.”

“Oh, you mean like you have?” Ash demanded, angry and a little bitter, and a whole lot sarcastic.

Sam laid a hand over his chest, where the phoenix had its head raised to the sky, looking ahead rather than back. “Yeah, man. I may not have squared everything, but I’m working on it. One by one, I’m working my way through a list as long as my arm.” He pointed at Ash with the bag of Cheetos. “You help with that, whether you realize it or not. So just...think about it, okay?” Ash nodded, jaw tense, so Sam leaned back in his chair again, face tilting back to the sky.

They were pretty quiet after that. Ash finally got as hungry as Sam was, and joined him in making a dent in the pile of junk food Sam had bought. The relaxation eventually caught up to Sam, making him tired even though he’d slept on and off for most of the day. He glanced at Ash, lost somewhere in his head, eyes distant and mouth turned down in a frown. Probably not what he’d thought would happen when Sam had suggested getting high, and for a second, Sam felt guilty. Ash no doubt smoked as a way to help him escape thoughts of his past, and there Sam went, dredging it all up. But it had felt...kinda nice, in a way, to have someone let him in. Even a little. 

Sam left him to his thoughts. Instead of pestering him more, he rearranged the back of the van, shoving duffels off to the side, pulling out their thick sleeping bags and laying them out for extra padding. Tossed a couple pillows down and added a comforter stolen from a motel when the weather had begun to turn chilly. When he began to strip down to just his jeans for sleeping, Ash surprised him a little by joining him. He’d thought his friend would need more space. Instead, they crawled into the back, shutting the door behind them, and curled up back to back under the comforter. 

It was a nightmare that woke him, as usual. But, for the first time in longer than he cared to think about, the nightmare wasn’t his. Ash was a tense, thrumming line of heat along his back, voice murmuring low and indistinct, the sound filled with urgency and guilt, the sound of begging. Sam flipped over, reaching out to shake the other man’s shoulder. “Ash, man, wake up,” he ordered, fingers digging in a little harder than needed. “Dude, wake the fuck up!” It was guilt, really, as much as a genuine desire to comfort, that made him so eager to break Ash out of his bad dream. He’d dredged up a lot of shit for Ash, he knew that, and all for his own curiosity. If he’d just kept his mouth shut....well, one of them needed to be able to sleep at night. And it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be him.

Ash came awake with a gasp, flopping onto his back and grabbing Sam’s arm. His eyes were wide, glinting in the slight hint of moonlight that made it into the back from the front windshield.  
“Shit. Shit,” was all he seemed able to say. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Sam worked his free arm underneath Ash, not really sure of his welcome. Ash put up as many fronts and masks as Dean ever had, and Sam was far less versed in working around them with Ash. Rather than offended or anything, Ash seemed surprised. As though he hadn’t been expecting anything, even the half-assed hug Sam was offering, and didn’t really know what to do with that. Sam shifted over, laying himself half on top, feeling Ash shift his grip from Sam’s arm to his back, face tucking in against his neck. Ash was still shaking, fine tremors that prompted Sam to shift over even more, stilling them with the weight of his body. “Rick?” he asked, pretty much knowing the answer already. Ash nodded against him, and Sam let it be. Talking didn’t always help, he knew that, had known it even back when he was dreaming every time he closed his eyes about Jess’s accusing gaze peering at him through the flames. It had hurt Dean that he wouldn’t share the contents of his nightmares. But sometimes, dragging things out of the dark only made them uglier. So he offered what he could in the form of his body on top of Ash’s, and his silence.

“You could have died,” Ash muttered, some indeterminate time later.

“But I didn’t. Ash, man...my death isn’t on you. Neither is my life. I’ve been hunting way longer than you. No one is responsible for me but me. You can’t worry so much about me.”

“Bullshit!” Ash shoved him, getting him off to the side so he could sit up. There was a click, then the pale light from a camp lantern lit the interior, showing Ash’s waxy face, set in a look of pure stubborn. “We’re partners, Jesse. Partners! Do you get what that means? It means that I watch your back and you watch mine. We look out for each other. You are not, whatever you might like to think, some tragic, brooding figure from the future, come to shepherd us all into a better life.” Sam dropped his jaw, gaping at him. “You aren’t some super wise man. You’re a guy. A guy who’s seen more shit than most, but still just a guy. So if we’re gonna be partners, you’ve got to let me be your partner. Equals, man. You aren’t better than me, and....”

“Okay,” Sam interrupted his tirade. “Okay, Ash. You’re right, I’m not better than you, and I have to let you watch my back. Which, you know, you do pretty well. Just so you know.”

Ash grunted, nodding sharply. Then he paused. “Hey wait.” His eyes narrowed at Sam. “I was apologizing.”

“You were being all guilty and tragic,” Sam corrected. “And then you rightfully pointed out that you’re just as good as I am, and we have to be equals. I liked that speech a lot better,” he added helpfully.

Ash seemed somewhat stymied for a minute. Then he kicked Sam in the stomach. “You are such an asshole.”

“So I’ve been told,” Sam wheezed, rubbing his belly. He smiled, though, and after a couple seconds Ash smiled back, chuckling just a little. Then Ash was sitting up and leaning forward, and before Sam realized what he was going to do, Ash kissed him. Sam froze, torn between wanting to kiss back–and wanting to punch Ash in the face.

Ash sat back, studying him with too knowing eyes. Whatever he might have guessed or put together, didn’t matter. Sam still found himself wanting to hide. To shove everything down so far that daylight wasn’t even a memory. Ash smiled, open and warm. Hands at his sides, he leaned forward for another kiss, licking a little at Sam’s mouth until he parted his lips to let him in. “No pressure,” he murmured against Sam’s mouth. “Just release. Just fun. Nothing you don’t want.” Sam swallowed, once and then again, then started to kiss back. It was good. Simple. Maybe just what he needed.

*

April 24th, 2004

Sam leaned over, lining up his shot with more care than usual. Across the sea of green felt, denim clad hips tilted out in a very cocky manner. They taunted him with the week’s worth of blowjobs he’d be giving out if he missed this last shot. He ignored them, forcing himself to concentrate on his shot, and only on his shot. Slid his pool cue back, ready for the lightest of love taps....

“Hey, Jesse!” Jo bubbled, suddenly jumping on his back and very nearly earning herself a cue to the gut. As it was, he stood up so fast and sharp that she was sent tumbling to the floor, and it was only Ash having the good sense to yank the pool cue from his hands that kept him from doing any real damage. Jo glared up at him from her sprawled position on the floor. “Hey!”

“What the hell was that?” Sam snarled, not in the mood to indulge her only child bratness.

“What? I was just goofing around,” she snapped back. “What crawled up your ass and died?!”

“You stupid little....”

“Whoa! Time out! Cease, desist and hang on.” Ash came around the table, putting himself between Sam and Jo. “Jesse, why don’t you set the table up for a fresh game? We’ll call this one a do-over.” He nodded at the table behind them, and Sam automatically followed his look, only to see that the balls were scattered, either by him or by Ash when he’d taken the pool cue. Which meant that he’d lost the game, and now owed Ash a week of blowjobs whenever he wanted, the only limit being on whether they were actually in public or not.

“Well, fuck.” He cast a dirty look at Jo, still glaring up at him from the floor. “Thanks a lot. Ash...”

“It’s cool. Like I said, do-over,” Ash insisted.

“Nah, man. I lost.” He sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to calm the hell down. “We’ll just up the ante next time around.”

“That’s great. Somebody wanna help me up?” Jo demanded. Ash offered her a hand, still keeping himself between the two of them. When she was back on her feet, she brushed her ass off, eyes narrowed at Sam. “You are such a jerk.”

“And you’re a little idiot who’s damn lucky I’m not carrying tonight,” Sam shot back. Because if he had been....God, if he’d had a gun on him, or any other weapon, she’d be dead right then.

“Nope!” Ash cut his hand through the air, a sharp movement to match the sharpness of his voice. “No. You aren’t doing this, you two. Jesse, just calm the fuck down. Jo, you come with me.” Ash wrapped a hand around her arm, not giving her much of a choice as he dragged her away. Sam briefly contemplated trying to distract himself by racking up another game. But he knew it would bug the crap out of him, not knowing what Ash was saying to her. What she might be saying back. So he snuck over to the door leading to the kitchen and pressed his ear to it.

“....know Ellen’s talked to you about this. He’s got a fuckin’ hair trigger, and you can’t just randomly jump on him, or sneak up on him. He’s gonna hit first, or shoot, and then look to see what he got.” 

“He needs to control himself!”

“He does, or you’d have something broken right now. Like your face. He’d feel awful, Jo, but you’d still be hurt. Just back off him, Jo. Please.”

Stifling a sigh, all the anger and fight or flight draining out of him, Sam slipped out the front of the building around to the back door, taking the long way to get to the room he shared with Ash. He flopped down onto the huge pile of cushions that they called a bed and stared at the ceiling until Ash came in. “You okay?”

“A little wired, but yeah. How’s Jo?”

“Stubborn,” Ash grunted, pulling his shirt off over his head without unbuttoning it. “Forget Jo. You made a bet, and you lost.”

“Time to start paying up, huh?”

“You got it.” Ash smirked down at him, hands on his out thrust hips. He looked not in the least silly standing there, bare feet and bare chest, a chunk of long hair spilling down his front and over the tattoo curling up over his chest. He’d chosen to remember a life saved rather than a life lost, and so there was a dead hellhound bleeding out over his chest and belly. Sam tilted his head a little, unknowingly letting the light catch on the pink-silver of his scars. He really liked that image, and he liked the fact that, even though his face didn’t appear anywhere in the portrait, there was proof of his existence. That someone had cared enough....

Sam let his eyes trail down, through the barely there treasure trail, to the button that gleamed dully. He had better things to do than think.

He sat up, rolling up onto his knees. Ash was right there, smelling of pot and soap and salt. Sam rested his hands on Ash’s thighs, his face against his belly, letting his breath fan out and bring gooseflesh to Ash’s skin. He heard the slightest hitch in Ash’s breathing at that, and smiled. His hands shifted to Ash’s waist, gripped firmly, and then he was twisting and lifting, bringing Ash to the nest on his back. Sam sprawled between the other man’s legs, grinning up at him from the vee of his thighs. “You want blow jobs, man? You got ‘em.”

~

“You know,” Ash mused, once the sweat and other bodily fluids had mostly dried, “I’ve noticed a pattern with you.”

“Oh really?” Sam yawned, contemplating an afternoon nap. 

“Yeah. Every two or three months, you get twice as high strung as you usually are. Then we make a side trip to Missouri, play spies, and then you get mopy and depressed for a little, and then you’re fine. Ish.” Ash poked him in the side. “So why don’t we just head out to Missouri?”

Sam pushed himself up onto one elbow, staring down at Ash. “Are you serious?”

Ash opened his eyes, calm blue meeting Sam’s square on. “Yeah. I am. The fact that you almost decked Jo today...that doesn’t mean anything to you? You’re better after you’ve seen him.”

Sam flopped over, eyes closing. “That sucks. I should be fine without him. I have to be.”

“I think...you’re more worried about him. It’s not that you can’t take care of yourself, or that you need him. It’s that you need to make sure he’s alright. So can I pack the van?”

“Sure. What the hell.”

INTERLUDE:

May 2nd, 2004

Dean sat with barely concealed impatience through the entire Sunday sermon. He didn’t like church. And he especially didn’t like Catholic church, with its stifling atmosphere and imposing decor.

Also, he found it fairly annoying that he knew the Latin better than the priest, yet wasn’t allowed to correct the man. But they had to attend, if only to appease Cassie’s mother. According to his wife, it was the least they could do, considering they’d had a quickie marriage at the courthouse, instead of a proper church wedding.

Dean’s one condition to agreeing to sit through the boring couple of hours was that they left as soon as it was over. It never failed to bring a pinched look of disapproval to Mrs. Robinson’s face, which he didn’t like. He wasn’t religious, and neither was Cassie, really. They went only to appease her, which she knew. It wasn’t fair that she should get to be bitchy if they chose to bug out as soon as they were allowed. 

He was less tolerant than usual that day, very nearly giving the woman an extremely rude gesture on their way out of the church. It was only Cassie’s fingernails digging into his arm that really stopped him. He took a little extra pleasure in gunning the engine, and making several people jump, as he raced away from the church. But once at home, he didn’t feel much like going inside. Cassie huffed a little, but went in without him without any more protest than that. She didn’t understand, and never would, but she did give him space when he needed it. He rested his head against the seat back, eyes closed.

Until Cassie slammed open the connecting door to the garage. “Dean, get in here!” she demanded, voice shrill with a combination panic and anger. Dean was out of the Impala and in the house in moments, gun in hand. 

“What is it?” he hissed, eyes scanning the house, senses open, trying to find whatever the threat was.

“In the dining room, on the table.” Dean kept her behind him as he went to check it out. He’d have preferred that she go wait in the car, but he knew from experience that any such suggestion would result in a fight of epic proportions.

On the table, where there should have been only a vase of fresh flowers, there was also a bottle of whiskey. Jack Daniels, actually, the amber liquid casting curious waves onto the table’s surface from the light reflecting through it. Propped up beside it was a birthday card. Dean thumbed the safety and tucked the gun in his pants before picking up the card. Besides the corny printed message, there was also a short, handwritten one, as well.

Dear Dean,

Man, Pastor Jim would fall over if he could see you sitting through a real Catholic Mass. Unreal. Hopefully it isn’t against your newfound religion to raise a glass anymore. At 3:02 today, I’ll be toasting my own 21st. I’d like to think you’re doing the same.

P.S. Don’t worry, I’ll never tell her you’re only doing it to get into her pants.

“Smartass,” Dean muttered, thumb stroking over the familiar, messy scrawl.

“He broke into our house, Dean! Who does that? First all those postcards, now...” 

Dean turned, scowling so fiercely that she shut up and took a step back. “How do you know about those, Cass? Those are private. I kept them in my dresser for a reason.”

“I-I was looking for, um, your cufflinks.” A lie, and they both knew it. She rallied, though, as she always did. “But seriously! I am your wife, Dean! You shouldn’t have things that are private from me.” She waved a hand at the bottle, and the card he still had in his hand. “And for God’s sake, Dean, he broke into our house. What’s he going to do next? Your brother....”

“Sam is my brother. There isn’t one damn thing I won’t let him do, up to and including gouging my eyes out with a dull rusty spoon. Those postcards are the only contact I’ve got with him, and if he wants to waltz in and out of here leaving random bottles of booze or whatever, then fine.”

“And you don’t think it’s just a little fucked up that he’d rather break in and leave a note than, say, call?” she shot back.

“What I think is that something really bad happened between him and my dad. What I think is that he’s hurting, and he’s walking a fine line between going completely to ground the way he wants to and keeping a promise that he made to me,” Dean told her, voice low and intense. He needed her to get it, to not make trouble over this, because it was all he had of his brother anymore. “If I had a clue where he was, I’d go to him. The best trackers in the world are looking for him, and nothing. The only way that I have of knowing if he’s still alive are his visits here. And I’m not giving that up, or in any way going to fuck with that. And you just stay out of my dresser, and leave my postcards alone, Cassie. They really aren’t any of your damned business. Save your reporter nosiness for the paper.” Dean swept up the bottle of Jack and stomped out to the garage, the only place in the whole house (house that she wanted, that she decorated, that felt less like a home than any motel room ever did) that he felt even moderately comfortable in. 

Sitting in the front seat of the Impala, his fingers kept tracing the few lines of his brother’s writing. Over and over, memorizing them the way he had with the postcards. Until 3:02 came around, the time his brother was born twenty one years ago. Then he tipped the bottle back and drank long and deep.

January 23rd, 2005

Sam slipped into the small two bedroom ranch that his brother called home. Sam, personally, didn’t like it. Oh, there was nothing wrong with the house itself. But he could tell at a glance that Cassie had been the one to decorate it, with little to no input from Dean. *I bet she kicked your ass a time or two* It looked like she was this time around, too. He couldn’t see Dean sitting on any of the spindly-legged furniture she’d picked out, much less actually choosing it for his home. But he could see his brother, clueless about setting up a permanent residence, just letting her deal with all of that, and then letting her override his objections when he saw what she chose. Dean...just didn’t like arguing with women, much. Not unless he absolutely had to.

As he always did, Sam prowled the house in a thorough once over. He approved of the wards that Dean maintained, even though he knew it was probably rather difficult for Dean to keep Cassie from vacuuming up the salt and scrubbing away the faint smudges of a grease pencil from the walls. The living room held a faint trace of his brother, the only other one in any of the public rooms aside from the protections. And that was in the form of a large collection of B grade horror movies, proudly displayed beside the more modern, popular flicks that were probably Cassie’s. The kitchen held all fresh, healthy food: lean meats and fresh produce, and only a limited supply of beer. Nothing like what he knew his brother could pack away, which lead him to suspect that she was making him cut down. Sam smirked down at the bottle of Jack, his by now traditional gift for whatever occasion. Dean would never let a bottle of good whiskey go to waste.

Moving on, Sam stopped in the bathroom. An odd stop by most people’s standards, maybe, but he checked every time. Just to make certain there were no new medications, nothing to indicate his brother was hurt or ill. And that was where it all fell apart. Because for once, instead of the typical aspirin and cold medicine and band-aids, there was also another bottle: pre-natal vitamins. Suddenly numb, Sam tore through the rest of the house. The second bedroom, previously a home office for the big shot reporter, was being packed up. In their bedroom, hanging in the closet, were a couple maternity dresses. On the calendar on Cassie’s dresser, a doctor’s appointment for later that week was circled in bright red, and later in the year, on the third of August, the day was circled with the words ‘Due Date!’ bold as you please, staring him in the face.

Dean was going to have a baby. 

In a daze, head reeling and stomach churning, Sam wasn’t aware of dropping the bottle. Nor of knocking the calendar off into the mess of glass and alcohol, smearing the too cheerful words. He needed to get out.

Ash was pretty surprised to see him. His spying missions had always before taken much longer. Without thinking, Sam crawled straight up the bed and curled around his friend, nose tucking into the hair behind Ash’s ear. Ash wrapped around him, arms and legs both, almost as tightly as Sam needed. “Jesse, man, what’s wrong?”

“She’s pregnant. Dean’s gonna be a dad,” he mumbled. He tilted his head, allowing his lips to make contact with skin, and began to suck lightly, scraping just so with his teeth. He started to move, hands and lips going everywhere, shoving clothes out of the way. He needed skin to skin all of a sudden. He needed....He needed. 

The world kind of faded out for him for a while after that. In his mind, all he could see was Dean smiling gently down at a swaddled bundle, a tiny fist clutching at his nose. And all he could hear was a heavy door shutting with the type of finality that typically came with fire or gun shots. When he next was able to drag himself out of his own head, they were long gone from Cape Girardeau and back at the roadhouse. Feeling strangely hollow, Sam crawled out of the nest and climbed to his feet, swaying unsteadily for several moments until his head stopped spinning.

He didn’t feel very good. Slightly sick and pretty weak, and he could smell himself, which told him that whatever he’d been doing, showering hadn’t been on the list. A hand run down his chest, feeling his ribs pressed too tightly to his skin, told him eating hadn’t been, either. Clinging to the walls, he made his way to the bathroom to start fixing that. As if by magic, he’d no sooner started the water running than Ash was slipping in. He didn’t look much better than Sam felt, hair in a wild knot, a good start on a scrawny beard on his cheeks, and deep, purple hollows under his eyes. Without asking, Sam knew that was his fault and opened his mouth to apologize. “Don’t,” Ash ordered gruffly. “Let’s just get cleaned up.” Not having the strength to argue, Sam let himself be undressed and helped into the shower like a child.

Normally, it would have felt good to be clean. To have the sweat of however many days rinsed down the drain, taking with it the odor of sickness and grief. But none of this was normal, and Sam couldn’t bring himself to be anything but indifferent. Ash guided him out when he was clean, dried him, and dressed him in a fresh pair of sweats. Then he was tugged out of the bathroom and to the bar area. It was before noon, and the place was deserted but for the two of them, Ellen, and Jo. Sam saw Jo start towards them, a look of naked worry on her face. Ash made a gesture and she stopped, obviously frustrated. Sam turned away, sitting at the bar where Ash directed him.

Ellen seemed equally as worried, although she was certainly not intrusive with it. There were no questions, no offers of advice or support, no hugs forced upon him. Ellen simply poured a cup of coffee and went to make him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. The coffee was hot, and the eggs filled his belly, which only served to make him aware of an empty place just above that. A place that no amount of food was ever going to fill. Honestly, Sam wasn’t sure anything would ever fill that hole again. But that didn’t mean he was allowed to just lay around, staring at the inside of his eyelids the way that he apparently had been. He pushed away the last of his food, stomach protesting that it was ready to burst, and looked at Ash hovering beside him. “You look like shit, man.” A relieved smile broke over Ash’s face. “Plus, you kinda smell.”

“Asshole,” Ash accused. Sam curled a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in. Not kissing. It would be a while before he was up to even slightly sexual contact. But just a hug. Connecting, as much as he was able, with the one person he felt close to anymore. There were plenty of people, he reminded himself, that didn’t even have one person. Who really were all alone in the world. And self pity never got you anywhere.

“We have work to do,” he mumbled in Ash’s hair.

INTERLUDE:

March 12th, 2005

Dean hadn’t even gotten his boots off before he heard her yelling. “Dean! Dean, come to the baby’s room!” God, but she got shrill sometimes. Shoving the urge to imitate her as far down as it would go, he kicked his boots off before trotting into the house from the attached garage. Cassie was standing in the doorway of the baby’s room, belly thrust out to emphasize her barely there bump. She pointed imperiously into the room. “He’s gone too far, Dean.”

Brushing by her, knowing too well who she meant, he stopped short at the sight that greeted him. They’d gotten the room stripped of its previous dark wood paneling and dull beige carpet. They’d (he’d) put in a new carpet, of a soft green, and he’d been planning to start painting the walls just as soon as the weather warmed up enough to keep the window open to air out the fumes. That was as far as they’d gotten with decorating for the baby. But now, in the middle of the room, stood a crib. Dean approached it slowly, eyes sweeping over the whole thing once, and then again more carefully. It was made of oak, he could see that straight off. Hand crafted, of a simple, sturdy design. He was pretty sure that the side rails came off to convert to a toddler bed, like the fancy models Cassie had been looking at. But those cribs, however expensive, would never compete with this one. This one? Came complete with spells carved into every side, many of them runes, but not all. Here, a spell for good health. Here, a spell to ward off spirits. Here, a spell that protected from evil. Over the head, in Latin, a blessing. 

Dean went round and round the crib, looking for and finding all the hidden protections that were carved deeply, and elegantly, into the wood. A wood that, by its nature, was protective. Dean had no doubt that a number of priests of various faiths had blessed this crib. Any child sleeping in it would survive the apocalypse. Certainly no ghost or demon would be able to lay a finger on it. Not only that, but the child would heal from injuries faster, not get sick as easily or as often, and wouldn’t suffer from the usual childhood nightmares. He would have the safest, healthiest baby in the world, thanks to this crib. “How can you say,” he murmured, “that he’s gone too far?”

“He had no right to buy something like this! We are meant to decorate for the baby, Dean. He can’t make up for never being here–at least while one of us is actually home–with extravagant gifts. Here! There was a note.” Dean turned, having a difficult time lifting his hand away from the wood. He was so sure he could actually feel his brother, so long as he was touching it. Cassie was holding out a fold piece of notebook paper. With a snarl, he snatched it from her hands. She knew she wasn’t to touch his messages from Sam! But she’d been even more vocal in her disapproval since they’d discovered the broken bottle of whiskey the day before his birthday....

Dean,

I hear you’re having a baby. Congrats, man. I know you’ll make a great dad. Love always, Sam

“God. Sam, please.” He turned away, not able to stand the snotty, angry look on his wife in the face of his loss. He clutched at the rail of the crib, once more feeling the echo of the love that went into it. Sam’s love, for him and his child. Sam’s final gift to him.

“Dean? What is it? You’re acting like...”

“Shut up. Just–for once in your life, shut up and leave me alone. You’ve gotten what you wanted, Sam isn’t ever coming back, so just leave me alone.”

“Dean...” voice suddenly soft, full of sympathy and regret. 

“I said leave me alone! I don’t want to hear you, I don’t want to look at you. I should have...there’s so many things I should have done, but I didn’t. Because of you. So just get the fuck out,” he snarled, so close to hating her in that moment that it was frightening. It was all over, he’d lost his brother. His father was very nearly a ghost himself these days, drunk more than he was sober and gone even when he was there. And now...now he wouldn’t have even the nebulous comfort of Sam’s random break ins, and snarky little postcards. Jesus, he should have left Cassie months ago. Instead, he’d waited too long, and she’d gotten pregnant. Dean had a more than sneaking suspicion that she’d done it on purpose. But whatever, he had a child on the way, and it wasn’t in him to truly leave his family. Which meant that he had to stay with Cassie, because any divorce would mean that she’d see to it that he’d never see his son or daughter. And now Sammy was gone. Dean’s only connection was the crib. A crib meant to protect his child. The energy it had to have taken Sam to create the thing was staggering. The care that had gone into making certain that the symbols from the different pantheons didn’t clash made his head hurt to think of. 

Dean wondered if the crib was sturdy enough, and if he could curl up small enough, to fit inside.


End file.
